


the edification of eddie kaspbrak

by tozier



Series: the love of the losers' club [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Compliant, Car Accidents, Drug Abuse, Implied/Referenced Overdose, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-05-07 15:31:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 120,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14674050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tozier/pseuds/tozier
Summary: ed·i·fi·ca·tion (n.)/ˌedəfəˈkāSH(ə)/the instruction or improvement of a person morally or intellectually.Eddie thinks that sometimes, the saddest stuff life is made of isn’t the permanence of death, but the tragedy of losing something you can still have.





	1. May, 1982

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has a playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/gqefiixgfkz6en12ub8bpr3zr/playlist/0F5XRYliznShrkz2rcdLCM?si=LlPAsaWgT5-RfO8tAUXtmA).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay SO. this fic is something i’ve been been wanting to work on on for a long time and it’s incredibly close to my heart. it’s basically my take on the events that happened before and after It rose when they were kids and specifically how they effected eddie. this is mostly a character study. tags will be added as i go, but i pinky promise i won’t write his death. this is focused mainly on him from childhood until leaving derry. regular posting isn’t a thing in my universe and i’m sorry for that, but it’s already halfway done, so
> 
> yeah! enjoy!

_When I was a child, I didn't hear a single word you said_  
_The things I was afraid of, they were all confined beneath my bed_  
_But the years have been long, and you have taught me well to hide away_  
_The things that I believed in, you’ve taught me to call them all mistakes_

—Dear Wormwood, The Oh Hellos

 

Eddie Kaspbrak is six years old when he first learns about the concept of death.

He didn’t understand it in the hospital the few times his mother took him to visiting his ailing father. He didn’t understand it when she sat him down and told him that his daddy wouldn’t be coming home again. He didn’t understand it when his mother dressed him in a new, black suit that she had bought several months prior in preparation for this day and paraded him around a drab funeral home while strangers gave him their condolences, sighing to his mother about the dangers of cigarette smoking and _such a shame he had to go like that._ He shook their hands when prompted to and never cried, never argued. Not even when he watched his father’s casket get lowered into the ground did he truly understand it.

When he truly understood it was a week later when he told his mother he wanted to visit his dad.

The scene is hard for Eddie to swallow.

“Sweetie, daddy’s gone now. I told you this. Do you not remember?” she fretted. She looked for a moment as if she was about to press her palm to Eddie’s forehead to check his temperature, but thought better of it, hand dropping by her side.

“I know,” Eddie frowned petulantly. “I wanna see his place.”

“His…” Sonia repeated confusedly, eyebrows screwing inward.

Eddie sighed harshly, rolling his eyes. “His place! Where he lives now!”

“Don’t take that tone with me, young man!” Eddie shrunk at his mother’s angry voice, and she immediately softened when she saw this. “Eddie Bear, you need to accept that Daddy’s gone now. He isn’t coming back. I don’t think it would be healthy for me to take you to his grave.”

“I don’t care!” Eddie yelled, stomping his foot, forgetting entirely his mother’s warning about his tone. “I miss ‘im and I wanna see ‘im!”

“My word is final, Edward,” Sonia said coldy. “Now go to your room. Don’t come out until dinner.”

Eddie’s face crumbled, like he was on the verge of tears, but before his mother could even react to this, he was running up the stairs and slamming his door shut.

It’s been three weeks now since his father’s death, and Eddie feels ill almost all the time. He has been shutting himself off from the world, new friends and his mother alike. His new friends are worried about him when he comes to school looking tired, if he comes to school at all. Richie Tozier, one of these friends, noticed the dark circles underneath his eyes and pointed them out rather loudly. If he had to rank them, Richie would be Eddie’s least favorite friend. Bill Denbrough is his most favorite—he always gives Eddie half of his sandwich because Eddie throws his lunch away the second he gets in the door of the classroom.

Eddie’s mother never packs him healthy snacks to eat—just Goldfish crackers or a bag of chips. Eddie doesn’t like to eat these things, prefers the taste of tomato and fresh basil with a bit of salt sprinkled on it, just like his daddy used to do. He ate this with Frank every day last summer. But when he tried to bring this up to her, she had broke down in tears, telling him that’s all she could afford to buy right now with no longer getting Frank Kaspbrak’s paycheck coming in. She told Eddie not to tell anybody about this, and he’d listened, but Bill still noticed his lack of lunch and always splits it straight down the middle. Richie has even been giving him his juice box.

Maybe Richie isn’t his least favorite friend. Maybe Eddie just doesn’t understand him.

Eddie doesn’t want to dislike something based solely on the fact that he doesn’t understand it, so the next time Richie gives him his juice box, he puts his head on his shoulder like he does with Bill and he saw his mother do with his dad when they’d lay in the hospital bed together. Eddie knows his mother loved his father a whole lot, and he knows he loves Bill and Richie just as much as his mom loved his dad. They always shared things together, and that’s what love is as far as Eddie is concerned. So when he hears Richie telling Stanley, a boy in their class, about how much he loves Goldfish, he makes sure to always give his crackers to Richie when his mother packs them instead of throwing them out. Richie presses a smacking kiss to his cheek every time. Eddie wipes it away with a quiet _yuck,_ but his smile never fades while he does, so Richie keeps doing it. Eddie really doesn’t mind so much.

Eddie thinks about his friends a lot when he’s at home and laid up in bed with his sicknesses. He thinks about if Bill eats all of his lunch when Eddie isn’t there, or if Richie drinks his juice. Bill always shares with him, even when he gets tuna which he said is his favorite, and Richie always gives him the grape juice when he gets it, even if he looks a little wary about the idea. Eddie loves his friends very, very much. He’s glad he has them like his mother and father had each other. To him, it feels just the same. He’d be just as sad as his mother has been if Bill or Richie were to go away.

His mother is very worried about his sicknesses. _He isn’t getting better,_ she told the doctor two weeks ago. _I’m scared that something is really wrong._

_Don’t worry, Mrs. Kaspbrak, this is very normal for children suffering from loss and grief. Perhaps you should take him to a counselor so he can work through these feelings with someone knowledgeable on the subject of death._

They didn’t go back to that doctor. Instead, Eddie has been to three doctors, one as far as Bangor, all telling him the same thing: he’s suffering from grief—there isn’t something permanently wrong with him. By the time Eddie sees the fourth doctor, just getting in the car to go to the appointment makes him nervous. His mother is always so angry after these visits, and it upsets Eddie to the point of shaking and shallow breathing. When he sees this doctor, a cheap one who works out of his home in their town named Dr. Wilson, he tells his mother that Eddie’s lungs aren’t working to full capacity. This puts a gleam in his mother’s eye—something is wrong, just as she’d thought. The doctor pulls out something he calls a spirometer and tells Edie to blow into it as hard as he can for as long as he can. His breathing stutters when his mother puts a hand on his back, and she shrieks in joy when the doctor tells them he thinks Eddie might have childhood asthma. Dr. Wilson isn’t sure, and would like to run a couple of tests, but his mother tells him that won’t be necessary—she’s certain he’s right.

 _Finally!_ she cries. _Someone is putting that expensive degree to good use!_

Dr. Wilson teaches him how to use an aspirator and, with a nervous look to his mother, hands her the prescription to fill at their pharmacy. Eddie hasn’t been using the inhaler very much when his mother isn’t around—he doesn’t feel like he needs it, even when his breathing gets shaky from nerves. This happens when Richie sighs about how cool the Marlboro Man looks with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, or when Bill tells him he can’t come over because Baby George has been fussy and his mom said no. Even in these moments though, he doesn’t reach for the inhaler in his pocket.

When he learns to, though, is when he has his first real panic attack.

He’s on the playground waiting for his mother to pick him up, and she’s running late. This never happens. “Mommy is always on time!” he tells Richie with fast-paced breathing. Richie is always the last one to get dropped off in the morning and the last one to be picked up in the afternoons, so they’re alone on the playground by the parking lot aside from their teacher who doesn’t look very happy to be there with them. “What if something’s the matter?”

“Don’t worry, Eds,” he says easily, slinging an arm over Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie frowns consideringly at this, but his breathing immediately slows at the friendly contact. Richie has been calling Eddie a lot of different nicknames in the last few weeks, ever since he started missing school, but _Eds_ is new. Eddie rolls the name around in his head, smoothing it over in his hands like a pebble from the river that runs through the center of town. _Eds,_ he repeats to himself. It makes him feel like a whole new person, like he always felt when his daddy called him _Eddie._ _Edward_ never felt good, too formal, but he liked _Eddie_ when his dad would call him that and he likes it now when Richie calls him _Eds._ _Maybe people who love each other give nicknames,_ he thinks. He doesn’t say this though, and allows Richie to continue on. “I’m sure she woulda called the school if something happened.”

“Not if her car got hurt!” Eddie shoots back.

“Well then, you’d just have to come and live with me,” Richie shrugs, as if this has already been decided. Richie speaks like that a lot, like his all words are fact. “My mom’s real nice, and even though she works a lot, she always makes time to cut the crust off my sandwich. Dad's cool, too. He thinks I'm real funny.”

“Why would I live with you?” Eddie frowns, crossing his arms.

“‘Cause we’re best friends. I gotta keep you safe,” Richie says, chest puffed out a bit. He looks a little bit like Superman and a little bit silly, so Eddie giggles. Richie’s head whips to him, looking playfully scandalized. “What! Don’t you think I’d be good at it?”

“I dunno,” Eddie laughs, covering his mouth with his hands. “Maybe.”

“I think I’d be great at it,” Richie declares proudly, tightening his hold on Eddie’s shoulders.

“If you say so,” Eddie smiles, already feeling better. He leans his head on Richie’s shoulder like he does when Richie gives him juice and wraps his arm around Richie’s waist. Richie leans his head on top Eddie’s as they wait for their parents. When Eddie’s mother’s station wagon comes whipping around the corner, Richie and Eddie’s teacher sighs, muttering _finally_ under her breath. Eddie barely notices though, pulling out of Richie’s grasp to wave excitedly at Sonia. He’s about to go running off to her when he remembers what Richie told him. He turns back and gives Richie a fierce hug, nearly knocking them both off balance. Richie chuckles and rubs his back soothingly the way Eddie’s dad used to. _Maybe that’s what you do when you love someone,_ Eddie thinks. He does the same to Richie, rubbing quick circles into it, too excited to do anything slowly.

“Thanks, Rich,” he says, the sound muffled by Richie’s shirt. A nickname for someone he loves.

“Welcome, Eds,” Richie responds, pressing a quick kiss into his hair. Richie kisses him a lot, one time even on the lips like Eddie saw his parents do. He supposes this is just what you do when you love someone. Bill doesn’t kiss him, though, and he wonders if maybe Bill doesn’t love him as much as Richie does. It’s an upsetting thought, even if he really doesn't think he wants Bill to kiss him all too much, but he quickly forgets about it when Richie shoves him backwards towards his mother’s car afterwards, yelling in a silly Voice. “Go on now, Lassie! Git! Can’t keep a grown woman waiting!”

“Shut up, you idiot!” Eddie giggles. He waves at his teacher and then to Richie before hopping into his car with a smile. He asks his mother how she’s doing cheerily, entirely forgetting about how she was late. She doesn’t respond to him, just peels out of the parking lot at record speed in total silence.

“Eddie, you can’t hug other boys like that,” she huffs after a while, and she sounds a bit disgusted, like she does when Eddie’s shoes get muddy. “It’s not allowed.”

“Why not?” Eddie frowns, tilting his head in confusion. “I thought you hugged everybody you love. I hug you. You hugged Daddy.”

“It’s not the same,” she responds quickly, shaking her head and keeping her eyes focused on the road. “The way I loved your father is very different than the way you feel about that boy.”

“Really?” Eddie mulls this over, picking at a loose string on his pants. “It doesn’t seem all that different to me…” He admits it quietly, already feeling strangely shamed by her reaction.

“Well, it is,” Sonia snaps. “Boys don’t love other boys.”

This thought is frightening to Eddie. He thought he could love anyone he wanted, but his mother is telling him that he can’t. Everything he thought he knew about what love is quickly crumbling down around him. He built himself up on pillars sustained by the love he feels for his mother, Bill, Richie and his father. But those pillars have been slowly falling ever since the death of Frank Kaspbrak, and consequently, so is Eddie. He can’t breathe. He feels like his lungs are being squeezed too tightly.

“Eddie!” his mother shrieks when she notices him hyperventilating beside her. “Your aspirator!”

Eddie pulls it out of his pocket and hastily shoves it in his mouth, pressing down on the trigger twice in a row to try to get more of the medicine, even though that’s not how his doctor told him to do it. His mother is happy with this though, and coos her praises at him.

“See, Eddie Bear? You feel so much better now, don’t you?”

When she says this, she leaves no room for denial, and so Eddie tells himself to let the taste of camphor on his tongue soothe him. It does so more than Sonia’s words do, though not nearly as much as Richie’s touch had.

 _No,_ Eddie scolds himself with a frown, shaking his head. _Boys aren’t allowed to love other boys. That’s what Mommy said. Mommy knows best. She knows better about love than you do. Listen to her. Mommy is never wrong. She wouldn’t lie._

These thoughts sit heavy like a suffocating weight on his heart, but he lets himself believe them anyway. _Boys don’t love other boys,_ she told him. Eddie supposes maybe what he’d been feeling for Richie and Bill wasn’t love at all.

He doesn’t know what to call it now, doesn’t know what it would be instead, but accepts it regardless. His mother is always right, after all. Even when she makes him sad or nervous, she always tells him that she’s doing it out of love. Richie and Bill have never made him sad or nervous on purpose like his mom seems to. Maybe he doesn’t love them after all.

 _Maybe,_ Eddie thinks, _love is something you have to be afraid of._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hi on [tumblr](http://rebetzel.tumblr.com).
> 
> this fic has a playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/gqefiixgfkz6en12ub8bpr3zr/playlist/0F5XRYliznShrkz2rcdLCM?si=LlPAsaWgT5-RfO8tAUXtmA).
> 
> if you like my work, you can help me feed myself [here](https://www.ko-fi.com/windling).


	2. July, 1986

_You were a phonograph, I was a kid_ _  
_ _I sat with an ear close, just listening_ _  
_ _I was there when the rain tapped her way down your face_ _  
__You were a miracle, I was just holding your space_

—Big Black Car, Gregory Alan Isakov

 

The scene is sweet like spun sugar.

The day is hot—sweltering really—and Eddie is with Richie at Bill’s house because his parents just installed an air conditioner in their den. Stanley said he’d come by later after Temple so long as they didn’t do homework on the day of rest. Richie promised him that would definitely _not_ be a problem.

The air conditioner is a bulky thing that sticks out of the wall and out into the world, dripping cold water onto the concrete of their driveway, but the kids are living large. Baby George goes by Georgie now, and at three (“And a half!”) years old, he follows Bill around everywhere. He’s a curious boy, and Richie doesn’t hesitate to remind him of this, calling him Monkey because of the Curious George books. This always makes Georgie giggle, especially when Richie pokes at his slightly rounded belly and makes squawking noises at him. Eddie thinks that must be what Richie thinks a monkey sounds like. Though he doesn’t know for sure, never having seen one either, he’s almost certain that it’s just another Voice gone wrong.

Currently, they’re all lounging on the floor of the den, the hardwood floor cool on the exposed skin of their arms and legs where they’re splayed out haphazardly. Georgie is squirming, perhaps out of boredom, but Eddie is more than content to lay down in the cool, dark room with his best friends.

Because that’s what Richie and Bill are to him: best friends. That’s all. No more, and definitely no less.

Bill and Richie have gotten particularly close in the last year; Eddie was put into a different class than them, and he has been butthurt about it the entire nine months. But it’s summer now, and summer means no more school. Summer means you can choose who your friends are. And Eddie would choose Bill, Stanley and Richie over anyone else in a heartbeat.

He likes Stanley a whole lot. Ever since he started hanging out with them a few years ago, Eddie finds he brings a certain spice to the group that Eddie himself doesn’t always like to provide. Stanley is acerbic and sardonic in similar ways to Eddie, but he’s also quick-witted and funny in ways that Eddie will never be. When Eddie gets annoyed, everyone in the nearby vicinity knows it. Stanley is more controlled with his anger, not one to jump into arguments like Eddie is. Eddie doesn’t like this about himself. His mother has been trying to train it out of him, scolding him condescendingly and cloyingly sweet about how he needs to respect her—she’s just trying to help, after all. Just thinking about his mother’s voice gets him nervous sometimes.

But he isn’t with his mother right now, and he wants to enjoy the moment as best he can, so he forces himself to feel the floor beneath his body, propping him up and supporting him. He can feel the cool stream of air from the air conditioner hitting his exposed shins, and when he notices, goosebumps crop up all over his skin. When he focuses back on the world around him, Richie is speaking in some sort of squeaky, high-pitched Voice fit more for a mouse than a human. He looks up and finds that Richie and Bill are reading a story to Georgie, one that Eddie can’t see the title of. He thinks it might be Winnie the Pooh by the coloring. Eddie smiles, lays back and lets his friends’ voices soothe his anxiousness.

Bill and Richie are the coolest people Eddie knows, but for much different reasons. They’re two different types of cool, maybe. Bill is calm, collected, a born leader, slightly nervous constantly but not in a way that puts Eddie on edge. And Richie… Richie is just _different_ than everybody else. Nothing about him is effortless, not in the least, but there is a certain essence about Richie Tozier that Eddie finds himself unable to ignore.

Perhaps the world doesn’t think either of his boys are particularly cool—in fact, he knows they don’t—but Eddie’s pretty sure the strength to which _he_ thinks they are makes up for it.

About halfway through the story, Zack Denbrough comes in with a harsh sigh that immediately softens when he sees Georgie’s joyful and entertained expression.

“Guys, could you move this little party out back? My desk is in here and I have a big lot approval I need to work on for the hearing on Monday.” He gestures to his messy desk filled with papers and the three older boys immediately scramble up.

“Sure th-thing, Dad, s-ssss-sorry,” Bill chuckles nervously, tugging on the sleeve of Georgie’s t-shirt where the young boy is still laying prostrate on the ground.

“Noooo, I don’t wanna go ousside. Too hot,” Georgie whines.

“Aw, but Little Monkey, you’re the only one who knows how to work the sprinkler! Billy Boy just ain’t up for the job!” Richie declares loudly, hoisting Georgie up from underneath his armpits. Georgie immediately starts giggling and wriggling around in Richie’s grasp to try to get back down. “Quick, Eds, grab his li’l legs! Careful, my boy, he’s a strong one!”

“Not Eds and not your boy!” Eddie laughs as he wraps his arms tightly around Georgie’s kicking feet. Eddie has been denying Richie’s nicknames a lot. They make him feel itchy. _Nicknames are for people you love,_  he remembers. He’s afraid Richie might love him, and that would be bad, because boys can’t love other boys. He calls Georgie _Little Monkey_  and gives Bill and Stanley all sorts of funny names, too, but for some reason, that doesn’t irk Eddie in the same way.

Regardless, Richie doesn’t even seem to register Eddie’s words as the two of them drag Georgie out the front door that Bill is holding open with a fond smile. Georgie goes kicking and screaming and laughing the whole way, but as soon as they break ground on the fenced-in backyard, he abruptly grows so quiet that Eddie worries and drops his legs. As soon as his feet are on the ground, Georgie manages to squirm out of Richie’s loosened grasp and take off running towards the sprinklers.

“Ha-ha! Fooled ya!” Georgie whoops, scrambling across the yard on chubby little legs.

“Oh, you little shit!” Richie laughs, taking off after him.

“Richie!” Eddie scolds as he follows them. “Georgie is very impressionable! If he starts cursing like a sailor, we’ll never be allowed back here!”

“Aw, Georgie won’t tell, right, boy-o?” He covers one of his own eyes with his palm and leans forward toward Georgie with a finger crooked in the air like a hook. “Aye, matey, this boy will be a good little buccaneer, won’t he, Captain Eds?”

“Not every sailor is a pirate, Richie,” Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes and chuckling.

“Eddie!” Georgie giggles. “We’re playing make-believe! Don’t be silly!”

“I know, Georgie,” Eddie smiles fondly, ruffling his hair. “Have Billy help you with the sprinkler and you can all pretend you’re on the ocean.”

“Ooh! Billy, c’mon!” Georgie squeals excitedly, pulling on Bill’s hand and dragging him towards the hose on the side of the house. Eddie backs up and stands away from where he knows the spray would hit him. Richie pouts and reaches his arms out towards Eddie, refusing to move from the patch of grass he’s standing on. Probably so that the spray will hit him because he _wants_ to run around in sopping wet clothes. Idiot.

 _“Eddiiie,”_ he whines, drawing out his name with too many syllables, and Eddie might hate that more than the nicknames. Definitely more than Eds, at the very least. Or, no, he hates Eds. He wants to hate Eds. He knows he should hate Eds, and Eddie always does what he’s supposed to do. “Come on, don’t be a spoilsport.”

“I’m not spoiling anything,” Eddie frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you want to get your clothes all disgusting, feel fucking free.”

“Thought we weren’t supposed to curse in front of the kid,” Richie teases with a maddening half-smile.

“Whatever,” Eddie grumbles, looking away.

“Plus, who said I was going to be in my clothes?” Eddie looks back sharply and Richie’s grin has gone toothy and wide and crooked in a way that makes Eddie’s heart flip over in his chest. He quickly shoves it down, shoves whatever his stupid heart is telling him as far as it will go, so deeply into the darkest parts of himself that he hopes his heart will never see the light of day again. Richie shucks his shirt over his head and throws it at Eddie who dodges it at the last second with a loud shriek.

“I don’t want your sweaty, gross shirt, thank you,” Eddie mumbles under his breath, half annoyed, half terrified. He raises his voice to a level that Richie will hear and asks with an arched eyebrow, “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“Oh, don’t lie, Eds,” Richie grins, running his hands over his chest and stomach. His skin is stark-white, nearly reflective in the bright sun, and his ribs stick out where they shouldn’t, not from malnourishment but from a high metabolism. “You know you want a piece ‘a this. Your mother certainly does.”

“I’d rather be hit by a bus,” Eddie deadpans, gagging. He scowls when Richie’s grin grows impossibly wider.

“Liar,” he teases, blowing Eddie a kiss. Suddenly, the sprinkler turns on with a shout of, “L-L-Let there be light!” from Bill. Georgie’s giggle and Richie’s surprised scream mingle together. Eddie smiles smugly at Richie curls in on himself to avoid the freezing cold water, but when he opens back up like a flower in spring and begins dancing around in the spray and laughing, Eddie’s smile turns into something softer, more fond. Georgie, Bill and Stanley quickly join him. Eddie hadn’t even realized that Stanley had arrived, but he’s glad he has because all their laughter all mixed together is Eddie’s favorite sound. It reverberates clearly in his skull and he hopes he never loses it. He wants to pocket it forever and pull it out when he needs it, roll it around in his palms, let it curl around his fingers and bind his body with light, pull his heart out from where it’s hiding in the dark.

Richie notices Eddie out of the corner of his eye like he’s remembering something he thought he’d forgotten and his grin is wolfish when he runs towards Eddie full-tilt. Eddie screams and runs in the opposite direction, and when Richie chases him through the yard, he doesn’t reach for his aspirator. He doesn’t even think about it. He just _runs_ in the way that he always seems to be itching to. He’s so fast, speeding through the backyard and winding around trees, the swing set, a little plastic house that Georgie likes to play in. He knows Richie will never catch up to him, not even if he tried, and just the thought pulls a cackling laugh from his throat. There is one thing that Eddie likes about himself more than he likes Richie, and that’s his ability to run. Run from bullies, run from fear, run from Richie and Bill and love and anything that could possibly give his heart a flashlight.

Richie manages to chase him into the spray, and Eddie isn’t worried about his aspirator getting wet, or having to explain to his mother why he’s come home soaked through his clothes. He is only thinking about _light._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hi on [tumblr](http://rebetzel.tumblr.com).
> 
> this fic has a playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/gqefiixgfkz6en12ub8bpr3zr/playlist/0F5XRYliznShrkz2rcdLCM?si=LlPAsaWgT5-RfO8tAUXtmA).
> 
> if you like my work, you can help me feed myself [here](https://www.ko-fi.com/windling).


	3. December, 1988

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep adding chapters because i have literally no self-control. this should be the final count though. cross your fingers

_You tell me that you hurt, it's all in vain_  
_But I can see your heart can love again_  
_And I remember you laughing_  
_So let's just laugh again_  
_When the night is coming down on you  
__We will find a way through the dark_

—Through the Dark, One Direction

 

The day Richie and Bill smoke their first cigarette is also the day _beep beep, Richie_ is created.

The scene that once was commonplace is now few and far between. It’s winter break and Eddie, Stanley and Bill are on Richie’s couch. They’re all shocked Sonia even allowed Eddie to come over. Eddie hasn’t seen Richie since the last day of school, and it’s already December 28th. He’s missed his best friend. Even that doesn’t feel like it’s allowed, though.

Sonia doesn’t like Richie. She tells Eddie that he’s filling his head with nonsense, that he should hang out with some nice boys like Vic Criss. She knows his mother from church and even set up a playdate with him. It was on a day when Bill had invited Stanley, he and Richie to watch a movie at his place. He was really mad that he couldn’t go because Bill almost never invites people over anymore. Not after—

Nobody talks about it. Nobody even tries. There’s nothing to say. Georgie Denbrough, Baby George, Little Monkey has gone _missing._ He’s been missing for two whole months. The police say that there’s plenty of evidence to suggest a hit-and-run, even though the body was never found. There was blood in the water leading to the sewer gate where Mrs. Corcoran was the last person to see Georgie alive. She’d already been so thoroughly traumatized by the recent death of her youngest son and Georgie Denbrough’s best friend Dorsey at the hands of the boy’s step-father that when she relayed to the police what she saw in a sort of trance, she understated the events thoroughly as if she were explaining an everyday event instead of the blood of a six year old. The police chalked it up to shock.

(It wasn’t shock. But they didn’t know that yet.)

It’s December 28th, 1988, Bill Denbrough hasn’t spoken a word since his arrival at the Tozier’s house, and Richie looks like he’s crawling out of his skin. He keeps making jokes, but they’re falling flat. Eddie laughs at all of them, sometimes forced, sometimes not, just trying to keep the mood light. Eddie usually laughs at Richie’s jokes, even if they aren’t funny. This is nothing new. Even though a lot of things are new (nobody asks how Georgie’s doing in school, they don’t go to Bill’s every weekend for Sunday Supper, they’re quiet, all of them—quieter than they’ve ever been), Eddie wants to maintain a sense of normalcy for Bill if he decides he wants to come back from wherever he goes inside his head these days.

However, Richie doesn’t seem to share that same sensibility.

“C’mon, guys, let’s go to Center Street. I wanna pick something up.” Nobody asks what, though perhaps they should’ve, because when they park their bikes in front of the pharmacy, Richie stops them before going in.

“Alright, game plan,” he says seriously. He looks like he should be wearing aviators and a bowler hat or something, rubbing his palms together conspiratorially.

“We need a game plan to go into the _Center Street Drug Store?”_ Stanley asks, tone flat.

“Yeah, what the fuck?” Eddie shoots back.

“We do when we’re performing a heist,” Richie announces, smug, like he's had a stroke of genius. Eddie rolls his eyes and is about to berate him when—

“A… h-h-hei-heist?” Bill questions quietly. All of their heads swivel to him looking bashfully down at the ground, as if internally chastising himself for even speaking at all. Eddie can see Richie’s responding grin out of the corner of his eye.

“Absolutely, Big Bill. We’re gonna get us some cigs.”

 _“What?!”_ Eddie shrieks. “But we’re underage! And not suicidal!”

“Maybe _you’re_ not, but if I have to sit through another depressing, elongated silence while watching _Roadrunner,_ I very well might off myself.”

“Jesus, Richie,” Eddie hisses. _“You’re_ like the fucking Roadrunner. Beep beep!”

“Yeah. You’re being a total ass right now,” Stanley says in a hushed tone, as if Bill can’t hear him from four inches away. “Beep beep, Richie.”

“Whatever,” Richie snorts. “Let’s just go.”

He turns into the store and all of them follow. It takes them about 45 seconds of wandering aimlessly, Richie’s eyes darting to the display on the counter, for Eddie to realize that they didn’t come up with a plan. He looks to Bill—their always-leader, Eddie’s always-hero—but his eyes are trained to the ground, scuffing the linoleum with last year’s boots. They’re worn and a little small. Bill’s sock-covered big toe on his right foot is poking out of their canvas fabric just slightly. Eddie wonders if Bill’s parents even noticed that he needed new winter shoes. He wonders if Bill even cares.

_Fuck._

He knocks into the display case of paper towels loudly, all of them falling to the ground along with Eddie. He shrieks in faux-agony and calls out for Mr. Keene to come inspect him. Richie stares at him dumbly while Norbert Keene comes over to investigate. Eddie meets Richie’s gaze, eye wild, and jerks his head towards the abandoned counter. Richie’s eyes light up with understanding and he smiles at him, saluting before slipping out of the aisle. Eddie’s still hamming it up when he sees Richie walk behind Keene, catch his eye, and flash him a thumbs up. Eddie says he thinks he can walk, and limps out of the store impressively. Once they’ve walked their bikes a few blocks away, Richie whoops loudly and gathers Eddie in an impossibly tight hug, spinning him around in circles while Eddie flails.

“That was amazing, Eddie Spaghetti! You’re a regular James Bond!” He smacks a slobbery kiss to Eddie’s cheek and Eddie grimaces through his laugh, half-heartedly trying to shove Richie off of him. “I was wrong about you.”

“Yeah? How so?” Eddie prompts, knowing exactly what’s coming.

Richie’s James Bond Voice is sultry and serious and alluring when his hot breath falls on the shell of Eddie’s ear. He suppresses a shiver. It’s probably just because of how gross he’s being. “I thought Christmas only comes once a year.”

He pulls back with a howling laugh, and even though that really _is_ the line, the laugh is probably due to the fact that Christmas was only three days ago. Even Bill cracks a smile that turns into a full-on belly laugh, joining Eddie and Stanley in hysterics. His smile gentle and his eyes are soft and knowing like they always used to be. Bill seems to know so much that sometimes Eddie worries about him. Knowing so much about the cruelty of humanity, about loss and grief and neglect, it must weigh on him. He’s glad to watch that weight lift, even if it’s only for a moment.

Richie pulls them and his bike into a nearby alley, and while Stanley puts his kickstand up as he always does and stows it out of sight behind a dumpster, Eddie, Richie and Bill all ditch theirs carelessly in the middle of the alley. Stanley doesn’t go to fix them himself or tell them to move them. He never really does. His idiosyncrasies are almost always contained to his own things and his own space.

Eddie loves all of them fiercely. He doesn’t want to, but he does.

He loves them even when Richie lights up two Winstons for he and Bill with a zippo he swiped from his parents' room. He loves them even when he tells them all about the dangers of lung cancer. (He doesn’t mention the death of his own father, how this is exactly why he died. He wants to, but he starts and stops the half-formed thought several times, and Stanley’s warning look forces the words to die in his throat.) He loves them even when Bill and Richie heave onto the pavement after their first simultaneous drag. Richie takes a lot longer to finish vomiting than Bill does, and Eddie (pinching his nose shut) comes over to him and rubs soothing circles into his back, holding his shaggy hair back.

Just like his mom would do to his dad when he threw up after chemotherapy. Eddie can still remember how pale and fragile his father looked, like a mirror-cracked memory. Richie is not pale and fragile, but Eddie wants to take care of him anyway.

 _Boys don’t love other boys._ He knows this. He doesn’t stop rubbing Richie’s back regardless. He wants to be comforting weight against his skin, in his heart. He doesn’t see how that could possibly mean something bad.

Richie takes a few deep breaths, Eddie’s hand rising and falling with him where it’s still resting on his spine, and he looks up at Eddie with his hands braced on his knees.

“It can save your life, this cigarette.” He looks at Eddie expectantly, wiping his mouth off with the back of his jacket sleeve. His hair is long and messy right now, falling in his eyes from going too many months without a cut. He told his mom he’s ‘trying something right now’. Eddie thinks Maggie Tozier might be a saint for putting up with that greasy mop every day.

Right now, though, it doesn’t look so bad.

“You sound like a commercial,” Eddie grins in response, completing the Bond callback. He tears his eyes away from Richie to check on Bill, who’s already standing and looking only a little worse for the wear.

“I d-don’t think I l-l-like cigarettes very m-mu-much,” he says warily, pale as a ghost and back to scuffing his toe against the concrete. He looks down at Richie and smiles. “C-C-Coo-Cool idea though, Trashmouth.”

“Would’ve been a lot cooler if you didn’t blow chunks all over my Chuck Taylors,” Richie grumbles, wiping himself off.

“Beep beep, Richie!” Eddie scolds, and just like that, the world is theirs. They have control over their words and their choices and their feelings for one glorious winter day. The sun is shining, and it’s a little unnaturally quiet with all the birds having flown south for the winter with the snow that Stanley has been telling them is going to come all day. They bike back to Richie’s house just as the flakes start to fall.

Eddie knows you’re supposed to spend Christmas with family, but he feels that spending time with his best friends, just for a moment, everything can be back to the way it was. It’s better than any Christmas with his mom.

 _Maybe,_ Eddie thinks with a dopey smile, sipping his hot chocolate and watching Looney Tunes with his shoulders, hips and thighs all pressed tightly against Richie and Bill’s, _you make your own family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hi on [tumblr](http://rebetzel.tumblr.com).
> 
> this fic has a playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/gqefiixgfkz6en12ub8bpr3zr/playlist/0F5XRYliznShrkz2rcdLCM?si=LlPAsaWgT5-RfO8tAUXtmA).
> 
> if you like my work, you can help me feed myself [here](https://www.ko-fi.com/windling).


	4. September, 1989

_Hello my old heart, how have you been?_  
_Are you still there inside my chest?_  
_I've been so worried, you've been so still_ _  
_ _Barely beating at all_

 _Nothing lasts forever_  
_Some things aren’t meant to be_  
_But you’ll never find the answers  
_ _Until_ _you_ _set_ _your_ _old_ _heart_ _free_

—Hello My Old Heart, The Oh Hellos

 

Eddie Kaspbrak has always been very good at telling himself lies. This is a scene he’s seen played out a hundred times over, just now with a few new characters and one very notable loss.

 _It is dead,_ Eddie keeps telling himself. _It is dead._

 _I forgive my mom,_ Eddie keeps telling himself. _I forgive my mom._

 _I don’t love Richie,_ Eddie keeps telling himself. _I don’t love Richie._

Eddie hasn’t left his room for a long, long time. He thinks he might’ve left his heart in the dark of the sewer. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate. He never leaves the house, and the only thing he leaves his bedroom to do is use the bathroom. He showers twice a day because he feels like he’s still washing the supernaturally black vomit off of himself. His cast is musty because of sewer water and smells so awful that Eddie has taken to covering it with a plastic bag to try to mask the scent.

Eddie expected nobody to notice these things except his mother who is genuinely happy with the current developments. She’s been thrilled that Eddie hasn’t been going to school or going out to see friends. She thinks he needs to heal safely within the confines of their stifling house and 'roughhousing in school' (a phrase Eddie would’ve laughed at with Richie or Bev if he were feeling anywhere near normal) wouldn’t do him any good. She keeps coming in to try to talk to him, but he gives her monotoned, one word responses. He never looks her in the eye. Not anymore. Not after all the lying he found out she’s been doing a few weeks ago. The entire life she built for him has been based on a complicated web of lies has been dismantled with a few honest words from Mr. Keene, and without them, he isn’t sure who he is anymore.

All he’s been doing is staring at sterile white walls for hours at a time. He’s waiting to be killed—waiting for a day that hasn’t come yet, though he feels perhaps it should’ve, or did without anyone else knowing it. Like maybe he’s a specter haunting this space, chained to the living world by a room that doesn’t feel like his, a house that isn’t his home. Eddie feels more hollow than he had even over the summer, like It had carved out everything that kept him alive and left it a gaping wound, empty and unhealing.

He remembers in flashes. It’s easier that way.

_Eddie, look at me! Look at me!_

_You let me go into Neibolt! You’re not my friends!_

_You need your aspirator, Eddie Bear. It helps you._

_I’ll do it for a dime. Hell, I’ll do it for free!_

He hasn’t told the group about what the clown said. He tripped over his words and stuttered like Bill when he tried to. The anxiety is eating him alive. He wants to tell somebody, anybody—he knows they all remember what happened, even if no one else in town seems to, he can see it in their eyes—but he’s afraid. Honestly, he’s fucking terrified. They’ll hate him. They’ll treat him differently. They’ll _know._

Eddie thought nobody would notice his absence, but he should’ve known better. After all, it was Bill and Richie who noticed when he’d stay home from school after his father’s death, even though they were only six years old and had very little sense of object permanence. He still expects his friends to forget he exists when he is not directly in their line of sight—he isn't anything special. Plain, old Eddie Kaspbrak. Nothing extraordinary, not like them.

But all of them continue coming by. Ben brings homework so he doesn’t need to go into school to retrieve it. He sits with Eddie and helps him with the things he doesn’t understand about their work. Ben is much smarter than Eddie is and understands things quickly and easily in a way that Eddie envies. He is quiet and encouraging and kinder than Eddie thought possible for boys their age to be.

Beverly brings trashy magazines nicked from Freese’s and slipped in her purse because she says that’s what makes her feel better when she’s down. He flips through them mindlessly when the house is quiet, learning about things he thought he’d never get the chance to. He appreciates Beverly more than she knows, and is glad her aunt moved to Derry to take care of her while she finishes school. He knows both Ben and Bill have some sort of thing for her, maybe Richie, too; hero worship, or love, or maybe even just affection. Regardless, she doesn’t seem to mind or even notice, far more focused on upkeeping the well-being of the group as a collective than worrying about romance.

When Bill comes by, which admittedly isn't often, he brings snacks—the bad ones Eddie isn’t allowed to eat anymore now that his mother can afford to fill him with awful things like chard and rutabaga. He takes the wrappers back with him when he goes, but he also buys Eddie the fresh fruits and vegetables he likes from the market in small, concentrated doses so they don’t go rotten. He teaches Bill about his father’s trick—tomato and basil with a bit of salt sprinkled on the top. Both of these are currently in season, and Eddie wants to giggle from the taste of fresh tomatoes he’s missed for so long and the juice from the strawberries staining his lips. Bill brings over packaged, pre-sliced mozzarella for the tomatoes during one of these visits, promising to take it back home and keep it refrigerated until the next time he can come over.

Bill has been more withdrawn than ever after accepting Georgie’s death. He’s plagued with regret and the weight of the blame he’s placed on himself. He tells Eddie in a voice that barely wavers if he hadn’t faked his illness that fateful day, Georgie would still be alive. Bill had been ill for the few days before that terrible rainy day in October, but even though he was feeling better, he had no interest in going out to play in the rain like Georgie had. He’d begged Bill to come with him, but Bill refused. He tells Eddie that he’s never going to regret anything more in life than that, and Eddie’s heart aches for him.

Mike brings books. Lots and lots of books. He tells Eddie that his favorite method in trying to forget the events of that summer is distraction. He thinks there’s no better way to distract oneself than to read, dive into another world. Eddie appreciates the gesture, but after a reading of _1984_ that took only one day, he decided not to read anymore books considering his reaction to that one was to pitch it across the room from heartbreak once finished. He talked to Mike about it afterwards, about the themes of suppression and repression. He doesn’t tell Mike how much he related to the narrator. He doesn’t tell him that the world is already like this. He doesn’t need to—Mike knows. He deals with his own repression, needing to present his personality in the most palatable way possible to the townsfolk of Derry so as not to provoke them into unfounded violence because of the color of his skin. He and Mike discuss all of this in a roundabout way—neither of them outright tell the other about the bigotry and hatred they face from their town, but it is easily read between the lines of their conversations. Eddie always feels a bit lighter during these talks, but the feeling quickly evaporates once Mike is gone and Eddie is left alone once again.

Stanley brings music. Neither of them dance, because neither of them have ever been much for dancing as an art and because both of them are still healing from Pennywise the Dancing—

They don’t think about it. Not because they can’t; oh no, the memories are all still just as fresh as the deep cuts on their palms and the 24 perfectly-spaced bite marks dotting the sides of Stanley’s face. Whenever Stanley comes over, he covers the mirror hanging on the back of Eddie’s door with a blanket. Eddie doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t need to.

They don’t think about it because if they do, they’ll break.

Stanley brings him tapes from old artists: Johnny Cash and Nina Simone, a crooning sadness lacing their voices. They’re singing about experiences that Stanley and Eddie have never been through—lost love, prison, drugs—but Eddie thinks the seven of them could write about things Johnny and Nina have never experienced either, despite their massive age gap. Stanley has always said that age is not a quantifier of maturity. (“Just look at Richie,” he’d said the winter of ‘88 when Richie had asked if he could use the flame from the candles on the Uris’ menorah to light his cigarette, “he’s the second oldest person here and yet he talks like he’s Georgie’s age.”)

Despite this though, Eddie never wanted to be mature. He wanted to grow up but not old. He wanted to always feel like he did at the quarry this summer—young and happy and exhilarated. _Free._ Eddie has always felt like, even when he isn’t in his house, he still carries around the shackles of his mother’s love. But with his friends, he can leave the shackles to the side for a few hours and allow himself to live.

At least, that’s how he used to feel. Before. Now, he barely remembers what he felt like when he didn’t have the weight of knowing exactly what evil’s face looked like imprinted in his brain. He thinks Pennywise is smart to choose fear as its primary sustenance; fear is the most evil emotion he’s ever felt, and he feels it almost constantly. He wonders if maybe evil made its way inside of him from feeling so much fear all his life.

And Richie, of course, brings only himself and his words. He comes nearly every day, and on the rare occasions he misses one, he is wary and apologetic the next day. Eddie always tells Richie he doesn’t need to come in the first place when he apologizes. This always upsets Richie, makes him jittery and twitchy in the way he always gets when he’s nervous, so after a while, Eddie stops saying this and simply shrugs in response.

 _Maybe_ , Eddie thinks, _Richie is lonely, too._

The first few times he comes, he tells Eddie stories. Sometimes these stories are mundane, tales from school and their friends, but sometimes these stories are fantastical. In one, there is a pixie who lives amongst humans, blending in to cause trouble. In another, there is a siren who’s lost her voice and is on the hunt to find it again. Eddie’s favorite is the one about the prince locked away in the tallest tower of the kingdom, and he and his guard have conversations from their different levels and different worlds.

After a while though, Richie must notice that Eddie is barely reacting to his stories despite the fact that he loves them and looks forward to them, so eventually his visits become simply them listening quietly to mixtapes he and Stanley have brought to play on Eddie’s stereo and sitting so closely their hands nearly brush. They never do. Neither of them allow it; Eddie because of _1984_ and Richie because of his vigilance of respecting Eddie’s boundaries.

Eddie isn’t sleeping well, and Richie notices. He points out his dark circles like he did when they were children. However, this time, his tone isn’t abrasive and jarring, but much more gentle and worried. He ghosts his thumb over the delicate skin of Eddie’s eyes at one point, just the idea of a touch, not making contact, not even really there at all. He asks Eddie if he’s been sleeping, and Eddie answers honestly. He tells Richie about the nightmares involving pain and shrieking laughter, both his own and a laugh far more sinister that he couldn’t erase from his brain even if he bleached it. He talks about having to sleep with the light on for fear of the shadows and not yet being used to it.

The day after this conversation, Richie does not come empty handed for the first time since he began crawling through Eddie’s bedroom window. After Frank Kaspbrak’s death, Eddie and his mother had to move into a smaller, more modest house in Derry with only one floor. She tells him this is a good thing, that he won’t fall down any stairs and break his neck. Richie tells him this is a good thing because now he can visit Eddie without his mother catching wind of it. Most of the visits from his friends involve his bedroom window, especially Beverly’s. She doesn’t like Eddie’s mother (for good reason considering the horrible things she said to her when Eddie broke his arm) and is hellbent on either never seeing her again or chewing her out for the way she treats Eddie and children in general. He tries to tell Bev that Sonia wasn’t always like this, the defense of his mother always waiting to be spewed in litanies off his tongue, but they always come out weak and flimsy and forced after finding out the truth about Sonia's iron grip that summer.

Richie has a bit of trouble climbing through the window with his stuffed backpack on the 27th day of September, and Eddie tells him to hand it through first before climbing in. Once he and the backpack are both safely inside, Richie busies himself with opening the bag without so much as a hello. Richie has never been one for formalities and small talk, which Eddie is grateful for—he always thought the world had to be that way, forced and awkward, but things are never that way with Richie. He always fills the silence, but he never does so with anything but enthusiasm for conversation. Eddie loves this about him.

Likes. Eddie _likes_ this about him. Maybe not even that.

Richie brandishes a plain brown box with a wide, expansive smile like he's holding 24-karat gold for a long while. Eddie doesn’t reach for the box in favor of staring at the wall behind Richie’s left shoulder, so Richie takes it upon himself to open it for him. He pulls out a pink lava lamp and plugs it into the outlet by Eddie’s side table and places it there carefully next to his bed. He doesn’t turn it on, but Eddie is snapped out of his reverie anyway, and he looks at the lamp with a perplexed expression.

“What’s that for?” His voice is far away from his body, like Eddie’s hearing it from across the room. He doesn’t look at Richie when he speaks and chooses instead to stare at the unmoving lava, trapped in stasis.

“You’re our light, Eddie,” Richie says seriously, more serious than Eddie remembers ever hearing him. Richie crouches down in front of Eddie, hands on his own knees for balance. “We’re in the dark without you. You gotta come back out into the sun, okay? You’ve got a little help shining when you need it now, see?” He points to the pink lamp with a small, hopeful smile. “For when you get scared. We all pitched in to buy it. I ditched school today to get it from the thrift store, that’s why I’m here at—” He leans forward to glance at Eddie’s wristwatch, “—11:14 A.M. We just… We miss ya, Eds. The world needs you. I—we—I… need you.”

These words come out shamefully, jumbled and tangled, like it's an omission he stumbled upon accidentally. However, Eddie barely registers it. At least, he doesn’t recognize Richie's tone as something to be worried about. Instead, he cocks his head and stands up, and this startles Richie into doing the same, stumbling backwards to give Eddie the space he thinks he needs. But Eddie doesn’t want that—not anymore. He ignores the looming presence of _1984,_  his mother’s voice and It’s laughter in the back of his head, and slowly approaches his nervous friend before wrapping him up in a loose hug.

Eddie realizes two things as Richie’s arms wind around his waist carefully: the first is that this is the first human contact he’s hand since Bill sliced their palms and pressed them all together, blood smearing and dripping in a way that didn’t make Eddie nervous, but instead emboldened. That was nearly a month ago now—a month since he’s touched anyone, longer since he did so without the metallic scent of blood in the air.

Richie’s hand sweeps over Eddie’s back in slow circles just like he used to, and this causes Eddie to realize the second monumental thing about this contact: it’s the first time they’ve hugged since Eddie’s conversation with his mother in the car at age six. Or at least, it's the first time since then that Eddie has hugged him back. He can feel every point where Richie is touching him, and he feels something inside himself reconnecting, something healing. The snap, the break that came with the sewer and Henry Bowers and the house on Neibolt Street, it’s all slowly mending. Not fully, never fully, but Richie has laid the glue and Eddie is letting it set. He doesn’t move. He lets the slow, concentric circles seep into the cracks in his buried, broken heart and fill them.

“Bond, I need you back,” Richie says, and Eddie’s sure he wants there to be some sort of Voice attached, but he just sounds like himself. Broken, messy, wonderful. His voice cracks on the last word, insecure and nervous in a way he almost never is.

“I never left,” Eddie recites with a smile, tugging him closer for a moment and burying his nose in the crook of Richie’s neck, giving into the creature comfort of the kind of touch he never allows himself—not anymore, not after being told not to by someone he thought he could trust. Richie just drags him closer.

Eventually Eddie pulls away somewhat reluctantly and smiles up at Richie whose nervous expression has been wiped clean and is now replaced with something much more gentle and relieved. It looks a bit odd for Richie’s face, like his muscles aren’t used to being relaxed or truthful and are begging at the corners of his mouth for something more dishonest, twitching with uncomfortability.

Eddie doesn’t like very many people, but he knows then more undeniably than anything else in his life that he likes Richie. _Really_ likes him. Maybe even loves him. The thought doesn’t scare him like it used to, and he isn't compulsively pushing it away like he's been trained to. His heart climbs out of the darkness and into his throat. Eddie doesn’t shove it back down this time.

“Do you wanna go outside and play?” Eddie asks, voice more certain than it’s been in weeks. He realizes he’s no longer on the other side of the room and is here in his body instead.

Richie’s smile blooms slowly over his face, and Eddie is reminded of dandelions, always opening so slowly and then dying only to be spread all over the land and come back multiplied exponentially. Eddie doesn’t believing in wishing on shooting stars or birthday candles or even dandelions, but he wants to believe in Richie.

“Yeah. I do.”

Together, they shut the lights off in Eddie’s room and go to leave. Before they do so though, Eddie walks over to his nightstand and flicks on the lava lamp. It sends the room into a soft, pink glow that washes over their skin and wipes it clean. Eddie thinks he could take a hundred showers a day and never feel quite as clean as he does standing in the light of this lamp, this bastion of bravery gifted to him by a very, very brave boy and their very, very brave friends. Eddie looks back at Richie who is already halfway out the window, his now-empty backpack slung over his shoulder and gaping wide open. He sees the sun shining brightly behind Richie’s head, sees the shadows his knuckles and joints make where they’re bent in awkward positions. The light creates a halo effect at the edges of his wild curls.

Eddie hasn’t liked shadows very much since It, but he thinks he could get used to living in the shadows Richie Tozier casts. He thinks maybe he’s already been doing so for a long time.

He and Richie leave his room together. Richie helps him out the window, minding his cast carefully, and stepping out into the dewy grass with bare feet for the first time in ages, Eddie feels made new. He feels like the empty caverns inside himself that once echoed cataclysmically with the sounds of maniacal, unsettling laughter are beginning fill with light. He thinks if anything is good enough to fight off the darkness that’s made its way inside him, it’s the light and Richie Tozier.


	5. August, 1990

_You make double-vision-bad-decisions, but that’s okay with me_  
_I know life's too short to settle down_  
_And you move faster than the world spins 'round_  
_It's hard for me to put my arms around you_ _  
__When your backpack’s on_

—Backpack, Alex Lahey

 

The scene is only slightly unfamiliar, but still wholly comfortable.

In the summer of 1988, the Denbroughs got a pool. It was a big hit at the time, but with none moreso than Richie. He loves to swim and horse around in the water—he’s a talented swimmer just by body type and a lot of time spent in the water. He taught Eddie how to swim at the Quarry when they were ten because Sonia wouldn’t let Eddie take lessons. She said he shouldn’t be in the water in the first place, that it was too easy to drown. Eddie never became a great swimmer, but he was decent enough and could keep himself upright. He enjoyed the pool at Bill’s as well that summer, and Sharon even let him use her hair dryer when they were finished so his mom wouldn’t know his hair got wet.

Last summer, the Denbroughs refused to open the pool. Zack wouldn’t tell Bill why, but when he asked his mom, Sharon looked ashen and far away as she has constantly since her youngest son’s death, and said with a voice which Bill recalled seemed disconnected from her body that she could still hear Georgie splashing around and laughing through the sliding glass door. They went to the Quarry all summer instead.

This summer however, Bill is determined to convince his parents to open up the pool. He makes a lot of promises that he probably won’t be able to keep, like that he’ll clean it by himself whenever it needs it and make sure to be very safe. Eventually, towards the beginning of August, the Denbroughs finally relent.

It is not lost on the Losers’ Club that this is the first summer since Pennywise. They’ve been hanging out almost every single day, and usually all night, just trying to distract themselves from the lingering feelings the heat is bringing. Richie calls Eddie up daily with new, enticing things to get him to want to hang out like comic books and his new Gameboy Pocket. Eddie never really needs much convincing to hang out with Richie. Still, he feels the need to keep up the act that he does.

The entire Losers’ Club is over at Bill’s for what Bill called a ‘pool party.’ Richie told him that term was lame and for babies, like ‘playdate’. Richie has been on a kick recently of trying to act much more mature than he is, and it’s not a great look on him. He thinks that cursing all the time and talking about sex 24/7 makes him look mature. In Eddie’s (very correct, thank you very much) opinion, it just makes him look like a fucking idiot, especially considering he _knows_ Richie hasn’t lost his virginity yet. He might’ve gone to second base _one time_ with a girl from their English class who smells a little bit like eggs nigh constantly and dresses like Laura Ingalls Wilder every single goddamn day, but that’s definitely not anything to be super proud about. Richie explained the experience to Eddie in extensive detail, and it seemed pretty fucking stupid if you ask him. Okay, so Richie touched her boobs— _over_ _the bra, Eds_ —and she made some weird noises that Richie said he almost creamed his pants upon hearing. So what? Eddie doesn’t understand the huge fascination all his friends have with boobs. They’re just part of a girl’s body—what’s the big deal?

His chest is currently squished onto a pair of them right now, and honestly? It’s nothing to write home about. He’s not smiling because he’s touching some boobs—he’s smiling because Beverly is carrying him around with his legs around her waist like he weighs absolutely nothing. He’s having fun. And of course, as he always fucking does, Richie has to ruin that.

“I didn’t peg you to be one to take it, Eds! Well, really, Bev’s the one doing the pegging.” Richie laughs far too loudly from beside them as he’s swimming by. Eddie’s head whips to glare at him intensely, and he finds Richie looking pensive. “Actually, that’s not true. I totally did peg you to be one to take it.”

“Richie, would you just shut the fuck up for once?” Eddie hisses, voice dripping with venom. Usually, when Richie goes too far, they’ll simply stick him with a  _beep beep_ and are done with it. But this feels different. Eddie doesn’t like how needlessly sexual Richie’s gotten lately. He stops briefly with a swift, angry _beep beep, Richie,_  but he picks right back up again soon enough. It makes Eddie viscerally uncomfortable, and Richie just doesn’t seem to care. Shouldn’t friends care about what makes you feel comfortable or not?

“No can do, Eds. The Trashmouth has to deliver the gospel truth to the people.”

“Never call me that again,” Eddie says lowly, and his voice is so intense with burning hatred that Beverly’s hands drop from his thighs instinctively and she backs up so they’re no longer touching. Eddie feels angry at himself briefly for scaring Beverly, but that’s quickly replaced with even more anger towards Richie for causing him to do so. Richie looks at him, brows screwed inward, and he fishmouths for a moment, lost at what to do. It’s quickly wiped clean quickly enough though, and is replaced with another fake, smarmy smirk.

“Sorry, Eddie Spaghetti. Didn’t think you were so prudish. I always assumed you’d be a real freak in the sheets. All that fire, y’know? Guess I was wrong.”

“Richie, I am about five seconds away from literally punching you,” Eddie says, voice quiet and reedy with a warning he doesn’t want to have to give. “Leave me alone. Right now. Unless you want to explain a black eye to your parents when you get home.”

Richie snorts and shrugs, putting his hands up in front of him and pushing off the side of the pool to float away. “I’m going, I’m going… Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Eddie, for all his positive attributes, is not a saint. And so when Richie turns around, he rushes at him with an angry scream and shoves him down underneath the water.

“Eddie!” Beverly shouts, swimming over to him as quickly as she can manage, but she’s can’t hold him back. Eddie isn’t thinking. He can feel Richie thrashing under the water, but his mind is almost entirely blank. He is only skin and rage. “Bill, get the fuck over here! Now!”

The second Bill’s hand touches Eddie’s arm, Eddie lets go of Richie’s hair and shoulders like Frankenstein’s monster shocked back to life. Richie comes shooting up out of the pool, gasping for breath. “What the _fuck,_ Kaspbrak?!”

“I…” Eddie looks lost. He _feels_ lost. “I’m…”

“Eddie,” Bill says, intense, voice always quiet but always listened to, “why don’t we go sit on the porch and talk?”

“Fuck,” Eddie curses, voice raw from unshed tears. He shakes his head. “Richie, you…”

Richie just stares, hair dripping water into his eyes that he doesn’t even try to wipe away. His eyes are a stinging red from the chlorine and he looks just as betrayed as Eddie feels. Bill puts his hand on the middle of Eddie’s bare back and Eddie swims away quickly enough so that Bill is no longer touching him, leaving his other five friends staring shocked at him from the pool. He’s shocked, too. He doesn’t need to see it on their faces to know how they all feel.

He hoists himself out of the pool and climbs down the ladder and jumps onto the grass. Bill follows, and together, they sit on the back deck. Bill had grabbed a towel for them both but Eddie doesn’t take his.

Despite Stanley’s snarky insinuations, not every conversation with Eddie has to involve Richie. It just so happens this one does.

“E-Eddie…” Bill starts carefully, “what was that?”

“Bill, he just makes me so fucking angry sometimes,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, clenching his fists and wrapping his fingers around each other so tightly that they begin shaking. “I always do this. I hit him or hurt him when he makes a joke I don’t like, or… or makes me uncomfortable. I just lash out. I don't even know why. I don’t do it with anyone else—he just brings out this _side_ of me, and I really, really don’t like it.” There’s a pause and Eddie turns face Bill with tears in his eyes. “Why do I do this? Why does _he_ do this?”

He’s asking Bill as if he’d know the answer because Eddie thinks Bill Denbrough has all the answers. Or that he at least has more than Eddie ever will. Bill looks pensive for a moment before responding quietly. “Well, as for R-Rich, he just likes getting a rise out of people. E-E-Especially you,” Bill says with a weighted stare that Eddie avoids. He frowns, but nods in assent. “And Eddie, t-t-touch doesn’t always have to be violent or sssss-s-sexual.” Eddie winces in preparation for the rest of the sentence, the _but,_ but it never comes. Instead, Bill simply reaches over and pulls Eddie into a long hug that doesn't ask for anything. It simply is.

And in that moment, Eddie realizes two things: the first is that Bill Denbrough is the best person he’s ever known. He’s like an angel, maybe, or a god. But the second is that he doesn’t have feelings for him like he thought he did. This hug has no fire, no electric shock the way Richie’s does. The memory of Richie’s arms around him always burns hot to the touch whenever he remembers it.

He thinks about his diary at home hidden between the mattress and the bed frame where his mother won’t find it. He keeps it in that dark, dusty place for more reasons than just to hide it away from Sonia. He believes his innermost thoughts are just that: dirty. Whenever he’s mad at Richie, he will angrily scribble onto the page about how _Richie doesn’t feel anything. He’s like a robot._  He writes about Richie a lot in his diary, and Eddie doesn't usually describe him with the nicest words. But sometimes, he’ll draw ugly flowers in the margins and think about how nice it would be for Richie to get him a bouquet one day, or if he could draw Richie’s smile. He’s no artist like Bill or Beverly, and he never quite catches the lines by his eyes right or the charming jutted angle to his teeth.

But the truth is that Eddie knows Richie feels things. He probably feels more than all of them combined—he's just so skilled at hiding it, trained in the Art of Masks, that no one really looks closer. This is exactly what Richie wants. This is exactly what Eddie does not do. He wants to believe that Richie is cold and unfeeling because it's easier to sit with than the knowledge that he's really hiding a blistering, bleeding heart the same way they all are. The same way Eddie is. They're far more similar than Eddie would ever admit.

Eddie pulls back only slightly to lay his head on Bill’s shoulder. He takes Bill’s hand that’s resting on his knee and begins drawing designs on his palm—nothing of interest, just touching to touch. It feels nicer than he ever would’ve imagined, especially considering there’s no fabric between their skin. He isn’t concerned about the lack of space between their bodies, the proximity between _boy_ and _boy_ because Bill Denbrough is much more than just a boy: he’s safe.

After a while, Bill begins talking. About the bullies at school, about Georgie, about his parents. And Eddie, for once in his life, finds himself listening. Eddie has always been a terrible listener—finds himself trapped within the confines of his head like a prisoner of the self far too often to make his way out into the world and pay attention to it. But Bill has always been good at pulling him out of his own head, so by the time Richie approaches them, he’s calmed down to the point where he’s at a resting heart rate, and is much more than simply skin and rage.

He’s forgiven Richie before he even says a word, and that realization alone makes Eddie think he should be terrified of him. He isn’t. He knows his mother would want him to be, but he’s not.

Eddie pulls away from Bill when Richie walks up to them sheepishly with a tray in his hands. Puberty hit Richie like a Mack Truck; he's covered in acne and his hair is no longer curly in the humid New England heat, but rather a frizzy, tangled mess, especially just after coming out of the pool. It's equal parts sad and adorable. He’s constantly griping about how Eddie never seemed to get zits or have terrible hair. His head is effectively a ball of frizz when he comes to stand in front of them and Eddie can't help it—he laughs.

“What the fuck?” Richie demands. “I came here to eat crow and feed you string cheese, and you're laughing at me? Why?”

Eddie stands up and pulls on one of Richie's frizzed locks. “Ch-ch-ch-chee-a!” He giggles, “Get it? Like ‘Chee for Richie, and because you look like a Chia Pet?”

“I _got_ it!” Richie yells, but he's laughing, too, as Eddie doubles over. He stands back up, taking a cheese stick and tilting his head towards the pool.

“C'mon,” is all he has to say to get Richie to abandon the tray with Bill and follow him. Eddie grabs the inflatable bed that's really only big enough for one adult and maybe an additional small child and lays on it carefully. He looks up at Richie expectantly.

“Well? Are you gonna stand there catching flies all day or are ya gonna join me?”

“Not sure of I should,” Richie mumbles, but he slips into the pool anyway and clumsily hoists himself up onto the bed, trying not to dunk Eddie in the pool, even though Eddie admits he kind of deserves it. “You gonna try to kill me again?”

“I'm sorry,” Eddie frowns as Richie fully lays down beside him. They’re close, very close, but Richie is seemingly avoiding touching Eddie’s skin. They look over at each other as they float listlessly through the pool, being jostled slightly by the waves their friends are making. “Those kindsa jokes just make me really uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” Richie says quietly, and he sounds so small. “I'm sorry. I thought…” He trails off without finishing, clearly unsure of what he even thought in the first place. He clears his throat awkwardly and doesn't continue.

“S’okay,” Eddie says. He dares to take Richie's hand, but can't look at him any longer, choosing to face the blinding sun with his eyes closed so he has an excuse for his reddened cheeks. “Just please don't make them to me anymore.”

“Okay,” Richie whispers. “Are we… Are we good?”

“We're good, Rich.” Eddie smiles as Richie adjusts to lay his head on Eddie shoulder. Neither of them are wearing shirts, but the lack of concern with that he felt with Bill isn't present with Richie. He feels his chest flush and his blush darken as Richie rearranges their arms so that they're tangled together on Richie's bare stomach. He knows there's something different about this, different than it was with Bill, but admitting to the butterflies is almost worse than having them at all. This touch definitely isn't violent, and it's not as sexual as he always associates with nudity. It simply is. He knows Richie is more than boy and different than safe, but he hasn’t quite figured out what else he is yet. He hopes he has the time to find out. He looks around the pool to try to catch Beverly’s eye as he offers Richie a bite of the cheese stick to make sure that she’s okay, but she’s already watching them, smiling sweetly at the scene before her. He smiles back and faces the sun. He lets the light Richie pulls from him shine.

“We’re good.”


	6. April, 1991

_An ugly confession:  
_ _I think that I’m broken when I try to be open  
_ _An ugly confession:_  
_I feel so unstable when it’s out on the table_

—Ace of Hearts, Zella Day

 

Intimacy for Eddie Kaspbrak feels virtually impossible. So he decides to start small.

The set is familiar, as is the cast, but the plot of the scene is something he’s entirely unfamiliar with.

Eddie and Beverly are at the Barrens waiting for Richie to show up so the two of them can practice for the talent show next month. They’re going to do the lindy hop together, and thus far, they haven’t been very good and called in Eddie for backup. Eddie told them he’s never danced a second in his life, but they demanded he come anyway. Eddie thinks they’re idiots because he’ll probably just laugh at them the entire time. Regardless, Richie is running late as he always is and so Eddie and Beverly decide to start their own personal project.

He and Beverly have been discussing what they’re about to do in great length for a long time. It’s been several months of discussion and divulging painful secrets before they dedcided to even venture into trying. It’s nearing sunset, Golden Hour, and the long grass beneath the train tracks is lit up in the shining spring sun. It’s beginning to get chilly, but neither Beverly nor Eddie have reached to grab their jackets where they’re laying discarded a few feet away. They don’t need them for what they’re about to do—it would probably just impede progress.

Beverly admitted to Eddie a few months ago that intimacy is a very messy subject for her as well. She told him only vague details, but he got the jist, and what he discovered hidden in the jungle of Beverly’s past made his heart ache. He doesn’t think anybody deserves to feel so unsafe around men, especially around their own father, but no one moreso than Beverly Marsh. She has always worked so hard to make everyone around her feel safe. Perhaps it’s a product of her past that made her work so hard for the comfort of others, but Eddie wishes it didn’t have to come from such a traumatic history.

Either way, they both are the way they are, and after Eddie told Beverly about his mother and all the lying she did for so long and how it left him unable to trust anyone, emotionally or physically, they devised a plan. It was simple, really: become used to the touch of others through a safe person. Eddie admitted to Beverly a few weeks ago that he’s never really been attracted to her. He told her this shamefully, like he felt he knew he was supposed to and was broken in some way because of it, but Beverly looked close to tears when she pitched herself into his arms quickly. She whispered _thank you_ into his neck before ripping herself away like she’d been burned. Neither of them are very good at physical touch, don’t know how much of it to give or take or reject.

And that’s why they’re here.

They start out with their hands. Beverly told him that was probably the safest plan, so their hands brush carefully as they sit cross-legged in front of each other, not ever catching and holding on, just brushing their fingers, palms and wrists together. After a while, it almost seems as if their skin is blending together as their hands dance around each other’s. Once they feel safe enough, they each nod and move to their whole arms. For once, Eddie isn’t thinking about the dry, cracked skin of his hands from overwashing, or the streak of dirt on the inside of Beverly’s elbow. He isn’t thinking about how sometimes he feels like he has to search for his body through the mess of tangled scars from the summer of ‘89. He’s only thinking about how _nice_ this is. The scars on their palms match up. The scars in their insides match, too.

He and Beverly stand up without losing contact and roll so that their backs are to each other. The backs of their heads touch and their necks roll, and it feels a little silly, but still really, really nice. They both giggle sweetly, but they don’t stop. They turn back around without breaking contact and pull at each other’s shoulders at the same moment until they’re crushed in a hug. Part of the idea of this was for them to try hugging for as long as possible until one of them got nervous and wanted to stop. Pulling away was entirely okay and encouraged if they felt uncomfortable in any way.

But the longer they hold on, the more Eddie realizes that this is okay. He can enjoy touch without having it be forced on him. Eddie is still forced to kiss his mother’s cheek every morning before he leaves for school and every night before he goes to bed. This is all the physical contact he ever gets during the day unless someone shoves him into a locker or slaps his books out of his hands. He rejects almost all touches from his friends except for very specific moments where he’s had to intentionally let his guard down. Touch for Eddie has never been desired because of this. He’s shoved the part of himself that craves the comfort of his friends’ skin so far down inside him that he can’t even recognize the desire when it crops up. Eddie knows rationally that he’s touch starved, touched wrong, always touched all wrong, but while he wants it, he’s still simultaneously terrified of even the idea of it because if you get something, it means it can be taken away. Being hungry without ever having eaten is so much easier to cope with than being full and getting your access to food restricted. He always would’ve much rather lived never known what it was like to be held to to have it and then get it taken away from him.

But Beverly isn’t going anywhere. She isn’t pulling away. Eddie can feel little slices of trust that have long since hidden themselves away begin to come back to him.

“I love you, Beverly,” he mumbles into her hair. He feels her smile where her mouth is mashed into his cheekbone and she drops her head down onto his shoulder before responding.

“I love you, too, Eddie.” Beverly runs her hands up and down his back, not entirely unlike the way Richie does, but he thinks it’s somehow loaded with a far different meaning. “Sweet boy…”

Eddie realizes that with these words spoken aloud, he's now told somebody he loves them that is not an automatic throwaway line to his mother for the very first time. Sure, it isn't the way he expected—he doesn’t love Beverly like he has been told he probably should—but that's okay. She wants, perhaps needs the exact kind of love Eddie can give her, and so he hands it to her in tender, scarred palms unselfishly.

For the Kaspbraks, the word _love_ is a tool used for mutual manipulation. He isn't even sure he knows what it means anymore, the definition completely muddled and shrouded in shadows. But with Beverly, he feels himself slowly begin to walk towards the light.

Suddenly, someone knocks into them, and they jolt, going rigid until they feel long, lanky arms wrap around both of their backs and the smell of spice and cinnamon and something sweeter that is so inherently _Richie_ overwhelms their sense. They both relax simultaneously and let out weak, relieved chuckles.

“Look at this!” Richie coos. “Puppy pile with my two favorite people!”

“Aw, you know we feel the same, Ditchie,” Beverly smiles, leaning her head on Richie's chest.

“Speak for yourself,” Eddie giggles, unwrapping one arm from around Beverly’s waist to pull Richie closer instead.

“You wound me, Eds,” Richie whispers, but his voice is sticky-sweet. If bees paid rent in Richie’s mouth, Eddie is sure none of them would never be poor, absolutely certain they'd have all turned to honey by now. Richie presses a tender kiss to both their temples and Eddie feels his heart finally, _finally_ begin to restitch itself from where his mother has been pulling it apart at the seams for years. He's always feels stretched entirely too thin, wanting to give himself to too many things at once but never quite being able to with his mother's chokehold around his lungs. But when Eddie breathes in wrapped up in his best friends and finds that his lungs are entirely free, he realizes that perhaps they always were. He's held onto his mother tightly, too, because she told him to and because he trained himself to. The kite strings so fine they were unknowingly shredding his hands begin to unravel, and the looser the hold, the less he hurts.

He breathes out. He holds onto his friends. They don’t shred his hands.

“Hey, guys,” Richie chuckles nervously, “can I tell you something?”

Beverly and Eddie both pull away at Richie’s odd tone to find him looking anywhere but them, eyes darting around the field awkwardly. “Sure, Richie. Come on, let's sit,” Beverly urges.

They do, and Eddie grows more anxious the longer the silence stretches on. And then Richie starts rambling, like a dam being broken open. “It's just that I've never really told anyone, you know? What the clown said to me. And I feel like I gotta, or else I’ll never stop thinking about it.”

The moment the clown is mentioned, Eddie can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He nods. He hasn't either. Perhaps right now is the time. “You can tell us, Rich,” Eddie promises softly, and the ghost of a smile flickers across Richie's face. “We’re listening.”

“Um… Fuck.” He strips his palms up and down his face quickly, as if trying to rid himself of whatever he’s feeling. “It was in Neibolt. When we went in the first time. It, uh, it tried to convince me it was you, Eds. Lured me into a random room filled with creepy clown statues to lock me away from Bill.” Eddie nods. He remembers. He can't stop remembering. _Eddie… What are you looking for?_ “The first time I came face-to-face with the real clown for more than a split-second though was when Bill and I found you in the foyer, Eds. I was so fucking scared… But I wasn't even thinking about that. I wasn't thinking about myself—I was only thinking about you. Getting you to see anything but the clown before our evenitable deaths. But we _didn’t_  die. Miss Marsh and her iron spike here saved the day.”

He flicks a smile in Beverly’s direction and she smiles back and tilts her head, eyes gentle and undemanding. “Couldn't let my boys be eaten by some dumbass.”

“Pennydumbass,” Eddie says sagely. “It was never very wise.”

They both burst out laughing, and Eddie feels infinitely better at the sound. “Yeah. Pennydumbass...” Richie giggles, sobering. “So when It was slinking back into its hidey-hole or whatever and we were all trying to get Eddie out of the house, It, uh…” Richie looks away like he's unable to make eye contact with them when he tells them. “It said, _don't touch the other boys, Richie. Don't, or they'll know your secret.”_

The silence weighs heavy like a tangible force in the air around them. The sky is set aflame, the blues melting into streaks of orange and pink, and Eddie knows they're not going to have time to practice for the talent show, but that's alright. This feels far more important.

“Richie…” Beverly whispers, and she sounds so broken that Eddie takes one of her hands. She immediately takes Richie’s once he does this, and slowly, without making eye contact, Eddie and Richie join hands as well. He knows it's not the first time they've made a circle in this very field, but this time, blood isn't dripping from their hands. The scar on Eddie's palm burns where it's pressed into Richie’s skin. “You… You’re…?” Beverly doesn’t seem to want to say the word. Eddie hopes it’s because it’s too sacred and not for any other reason.

“Mostly. I mean — yeah. Mostly. Super-mostly… What did you expect?” Richie shrugs with a self-deprecating smile. “I'm a freak, gov’na.”

“No, Richie, you're not a freak,” Eddie says seriously. He wants to say _if you're a freak, I'm a freak,_ but he doesn't get the chance because Richie continues on almost manically.

“Kill me? _Kill_ me? You can't even kill _yourself,_ Trashmouth!” Richie recites. The silence is deafening. “So many secrets…” He says this in a whisper, and Eddie can tell from the expression on his face that he isn't trying to, but his voice picks back up again in that same high-pitched, frantic tone when he continues. “I'll do it _for_ ya if you're so inclined! I'll do it for ya! I'll do it for free!”

Richie's hands are shaking violently by the end and Eddie’s blood runs cold.

“It…” He can't even finish his train of thought. He doesn't know how to. _I'll do it for a dime,_ Eddie remembers from the street across from Neibolt House, _hell, I'll do it for free!_

“Cheap-ass fucking clown,” Eddie mumbles acidicly before he even has time to stop himself. Beverly and Richie both look at him, and he knows he has to tell them. “Sorry. Uh, it said the same thing to me. When It was the hobo that had syphilis, it… propositioned me with the same phrase.”

“Fuck…” Beverly whispers, eyes wide.

“Get some new material, Pennydumbass,” Richie says, and they all share a laugh that could only be borne out of shared experience and mutual trauma. “Bev, you wanna share with the class?”

“I don't really… I mean, It couldn't really do much to me after my dad’s death. I wasn't afraid anymore.”

“Do you still feel that way?” Eddie asks. “Unafraid?”

“Sometimes,” Beverly shrugs, eyes downcast. “Not always.” But then she looks back up at them with a small smile. “But I feel pretty unafraid right now.”

“Yeah,” Eddie marvels, expression dazzled by his friends’ bravery, the bravery he possesses by proxy. “Me, too.”

“Okay, c’mon, guys, enough lovey-dovey chit-chat. Let's go back to my place. We’re not gonna get any dancing in anyway before the sun goes down. Plus, there's a Twilight Zone marathon on SyFy I will kill you both personally if I miss.” He stands up, pulling them both with them, and tossing his arms around both their shoulders. Emboldened by Richie’s confessions and sharing his own, he wraps his arm around Richie's waist, overlapping Beverly’s where it's also resting.

“Hey, Richie…” Eddie says quietly. Richie looks down at him and Eddie squeezes his hip gently. “Thanks. For telling us, I mean.”

“‘Course, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie smiles, and Eddie gets lost in his sweet stare as Richie ruffles his hair. Eddie doesn’t even bother pretending that he minds that or the nickname. He’s too lost—enamoured. Beverly looks at Richie that way too every now and then, like he’s an endless power source, a light that’s always on. He sometimes feels like Richie’s eyes are their own suns that the rest of them simply orbit around. “Couldn't let It win by hiding from the truth forever.”

Richie looks forward again, and the weight of what Richie said hits Eddie like a freight train. _Don't touch the other boys. You can't even kill yourself._ The implication that these things are Richie's truth fills his heart with an ancient heaviness that he isn't even sure he understands, but at the same time, he sees a light at the end of the dark tunnel he's been in for years. If Richie sees the same light, he thinks maybe they can walk through hell together.


	7. January, 1992

_Now there's a ghost in the back of this room_  
_And I don't like it_  
_I fall asleep with my covers pulled up_  
_And try to fight it_  
_I gotta say, it's hard to be brave_ _  
__When you’re alone in the dark_

—Nightmares, All Time Low

 

The scene is not his own.

Eddie has not remembered a single dream he’s had since defeating It. Before that summer, he remembered nearly every dream, and most of them were boring as shit—mundane stuff like mowing the lawn or getting a splinter out or climbing trees with Bill.

He’s certain he’s not remembering his dreams because they’re all about the clown. He thinks this because every night, he falls asleep around 2 A.M. and wakes up at 6 for school, shaking and sweating and completely unrested.

Richie comes through his window most nights, not because he doesn’t like his house, but because he knows Eddie doesn’t like his own. Richie doesn’t mind that Eddie reads in the light of the lava lamp at night, just rolls over and covers his face with the pillow. He doesn’t mind when he cries, just holds him close until his sobs subside.

After they both admitted to what It told them at the Barrens with Beverly, the three of them been inseparable. All summer, they laid in each other’s beds and talked about everything, anything. Eddie hasn’t exactly come out to them—not in those exact words. Shit, he’s barely even come out to himself. Instead, they talk about everything else.

The dream he has that night though changes that entirely for him. His sexuality becomes impossible for him to sweep under the rug with one sweat-wracked dream.

It goes like this:

They’re underwater. Him and… someone. Bill? No, Bill’s movements are jerkier than this, more nervous. It’s definitely a boy, though. Either way, they’re underwater, and Eddie doesn’t need to hold his breath. He thinks he does, but after a while, he begins breathing easily. The boy reaches for him and their legs tangle together fluidly. Eddie smiles. The boy smiles. He has wild black hair and crooked teeth and he shines, even in the muted lighting of the water. He is all Eddie can see. Eddie never wants to stop looking at him.

He realizes distantly that the boy is Richie once he drags them to the surface. They’re not in the water anymore, walking in the grass barefoot, and the rocks underfoot don’t dig into the soles of Eddie’s feet like they usually do. It’s almost as if they’re floating. And then, they are floating, and it isn’t the kind of deadness that he witnessed with the clown. He isn’t even thinking about the clown at all. He and Richie move like they’re still underwater, swimming through the air and laughing. Richie pulls him up higher and they spin together, bodies tangled and listless in their movements, going nowhere in particular, almost like they’re dancing the way the boy and the girl sometimes do in John Hughes’ movies. Eddie hadn’t realized that they were naked before, but he does now as their chests brush together. Eddie doesn’t look down to observe Richie’s body, but Richie does. He appraises Eddie like a piece of fine art. He brushes his hands along Eddie’s shoulders, his back, his thighs. Eddie shivers but does nothing to stop him. He isn’t scared.

Richie floats back up to eye level and takes Eddie’s hands to put them on his chest. Eddie feels like he’s touching the surface of a pool, soft and ever-moving. Richie closes his eyes and smiles peacefully. He puts his hands back on Eddie’s chest and pinches the space between his pectoral muscle and his shoulder, not with the teasing he usually does, but with fondness. It doesn’t sting like it might in the real world. It’s a kind of dull ache that shoots sparks down his spine. He sighs gratefully as Richie tugs him closer, closer…

Eddie does not shoot up in bed like he usually does at night. His consciousness swims as he attempts half-heartedly to hold onto the dream. The light from the sun in the field is slipping. Richie’s smile is fading. He feels the bed beneath him. He is not being touched and he is touching no one. Eddie comes to with the realization that he is alone.

Richie does not come over every night, or even every night that he can. He sleeps over on Saturday nights, always, despite Sonia’s protests, and sometimes on school nights he slips through Eddie’s window, always cracked just a smidge so Richie can hook his fingers underneath it and pull up to let himself in. Eddie has never gone to Richie’s house in the middle of the night. It’s hard enough hiding in his own home, let alone trying to hide outside of it, too.

He feels restless, shaking slightly with adrenaline as the images of the dream come back to him. Touching Richie’s skin, breathing underwater, the feeling of freedom associated with both. He suddenly misses Richie with a tangible, physical ache in his heart. He can feel the pressure in his chest that he knows would be relieved with one touch from one of his friends. It always is. Without really thinking, he slips out of bed and grabs his brown down jacket, the one that Richie tells him always makes him look like a meatball, and quietly slips out his bedroom window like he’s watched Richie do hundreds of times. He mounts his bike he keeps chained to the staircase and takes off into the night. He tells himself he’ll only be gone an hour at the most, trying to quiet his nerves.

It doesn’t take long to get to Richie’s house—he’s made the trip too many times to count over the years—but he didn’t take into account when he left home that Richie’s bedroom is on the second story. He frowns as he leans his bike against the side of the house behind a bush, trying to figure out the best way to alert Richie of his presence. He’s heard of people throwing rocks at windows, but he doesn’t see any stones around small enough not to completely go through the glass, all buried underneath the ice and snow. He thinks about ringing the horn on his bike, but that might wake up Richie’s family as well, which would be less than ideal. He searches the ground for something to throw, but that isn’t what ends up alerting Richie he’s there. What does is when Eddie trips over an exposed root from the magnolia tree in his yard that he hadn’t seen through the snow and falls onto the ground, the hard, compact snow skinning his hands.

 _“Shit!”_ he cries, scrambling back up and trying to look at his hands in the faint glow from the streetlamp a few houses down. He can see blood welling up and he curses again, louder this time. “Fuck! Shit, fuck!”

He doesn’t notice the light flick on in Richie’s room or the curtains move, too busy staring at his hands and trying to figure out what to do with them. He does hear Richie open his window though. It’s a squeaky thing, and it needs to be held open with a wooden plank, so Richie has his hand braced above himself with one shaky arm holding it up when he squints down to the ground.

“Is that a burglar?” he asks, voice rough with sleep. “The door’s unlocked. You’re a shitty fucking burglar if you didn’t check that first.”

“It’s not a burglar, you fucking idiot, it’s Eddie!” he hisses, hands cupped underneath his jacket.

“Oh!” Richie says brightly. “Should’ve known from the meatball coat.” Eddie can almost hear his infuriating grin.

“Fuck you. I’m coming in. Meet me downstairs with a first aid kit.”

“Bossy,” he hears Richie mumble, but it sounds fond. Eddie doesn’t know why Richie is always so fond of Eddie’s propensity for snappishness, but he isn’t going to question it now. Eddie goes to the front door and when he opens it, he pulls up on the handle so it doesn’t squeak, a trick Richie taught him when they were ten and his mother was asleep in the living room after a long shift at work. He knows which of the floorboards in Richie’s living room creak, and what stairs to skip to avoid excess noise. He knows Richie’s house almost as well as he knows his own. He knows Richie far better than he knows himself.

Eddie slips inside and finds Richie trudging down the stairs sleepily. “No first aid kit?” he frowns.

“‘S in the downstairs bathroom, chill, Kaspbrak,” Richie chuckles quietly, turning down the hallway. Eddie follows him, mumbling _I’m very fucking chill._ The light in the downstairs bathroom buzzes loudly, and it’s a sickly kind of yellow that always makes Eddie feel a little anxious. But being in there with Richie as he quietly moves around the tiny room, setting up supplies on the sink like a seasoned professional after watching Eddie do it for him so many times, he feels a strange sense of peace. Richie hasn’t even touched him, and Eddie already has what he’d been yearning for back at home.

Richie kneels in front of Eddie where he’s sitting on the closed toilet seat and begins carefully cleaning his wounds. With the touch of skin-on-skin, the tightness within him immediately unravels. Richie’s eyes are still glassy and unfocused behind his glasses from sleep, and he’s blinking a lot to try to keep focused. His hair is an absolute mess, and Eddie can’t stop staring. He doesn’t remember if he’d been able to capture the charming messiness of Richie’s hair in his dream, but he’s sure now that he must not have. Richie puts the finishing touches on the last brightly-colored bandaid, hot pink and covered in cupcakes, assumingly picked out by Richie’s sister, or maybe his mother as a joke. His tongue is peeking out of his mouth in concentration, and Eddie sleepily runs his already-bandaged fingers through Richie’s curls, pushing them back and out of his face. Richie looks up at him and smiles, half gratitude, half hope.

“Thanks, Spaghetti,” he whispers.

“Welcome, Trashmouth,” Eddie whispers back.

The colorful bandaids are on his hands now, and there’s no reason for Richie to still be holding them, but he is. There’s no reason for Eddie to still be playing with Richie’s curls, but he is. There’s no reason for the air to be sucked out of the room when their eyes meet, but… maybe there is. Maybe there always was.

“Can we go back up to your room?” Eddie asks quietly. Richie smirks, like he’s going to make a trashmouthed comment in response, but he just nods instead, thinking better of it. He stands up and leads Eddie out of the room by his bandaged hand. They ascend the stairs quietly, and when Eddie sits on the bed, he’s suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. He watches Richie stuff a few shirts underneath his door the way Eddie always does when he sleeps over to muffle the noise, and when Richie turns back around, he laughs openly.

“What?” Eddie frowns, annoyed.

“You’re still wearing your coat, Chef Boyardee,” Richie giggles, walking over to him and pushing it off his shoulders. Their knees bump together and suddenly, they’re close. So close. With anyone else aside from Beverly or maybe Bill on a good day, Eddie would say too close. But this is Richie, and too close is never enough. He’s wide awake now.

“Better,” Richie smiles after taking Eddie’s arms out and dropping it on the floor. He kneels down to remove Eddie’s snowboots for him, and Eddie is struck by how domestic this is, how domestic they always are. He isn’t sure when he fully realized his feelings for Richie are much different than they are for anyone else, but he’s shocked that it took him so long to put words to it. He’s had hundreds of terrible, dirty descriptors floating around in his head over the years in the voices of Henry Bowers, Gretta Bowie, his mother, the clown, but he feels like he started loving Richie before he even knew what love was. He isn’t scared. He knows he should be, but he’s not.

Richie sits beside him and looks at him pensively. “So… Eds.”

“So, Rich,” Eddie responds with a small smile. He goes to lay down, but Richie catches his wrist.

“Eds,” he repeats insistently. He doesn’t let go. Eddie doesn’t want him to. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t I hang out with my stupid best friend at 2:30 in the morning?” Eddie titters a bit nervously.

“Always,” Richie says breezily. “But you usually don’t.”

Eddie sighs. “Can I, uh, can I tell you something?”

“Sure, Spaghetti.”

“I, uh…” Eddie wants to tell him about the growing thing inside him. It feels almost impossible to ignore, especially with Richie looking at him the way he is, the way he always is. Eddie swears he tries to say it. But something else comes out instead—something that’s perhaps just as important. “Bill took me to see his counselor.” Richie eyebrows raise, but he says nothing. He’s still holding on. “He saved up his allowance to pay for the session so that my mom wouldn’t find out.”

“Wow,” Richie breathes. “What about the other sessions?”

“Non-existent,” Eddie chuckles darkly. “Too much money.”

“Well, what’d the shrink say?” Richie asks.

“She wasn’t a _shrink,_ dipshit,” Eddie laughs quietly. “She’s a grief counselor, and she was actually pretty nice. But it was… really intense. Bill kept telling me how much it was helping him with the anxiety and the shit he was feeling from losing Georgie, and I just… I didn’t wanna disappoint him, y’know? But I couldn’t really… deal… with any of it. The reality I was facing, the memories resurfacing, hiding it from my mom, it just… it wasn’t worth it for me. But she did tell me I have a panic disorder. That’s why the inhaler works like it does. She called them ‘psychosomatic symptoms’ or something like that.”

“Oh,” Richie says confusedly. “So like… your nerves are an illness kind of thing?” Eddie just shrugs without responding. “Like panic attacks?”

“I guess, yeah,” Eddie says.

Richie snorts, grins broadly, “Well, no shit, Sherlock, I coulda told ya that.”

And it should be insulting, but it’s actually kind of comforting to Eddie that someone else sees the same thing he does. He knows he has some sort of mental illness, he’s known since Mr. Keene told him about his placebo medication, but he hasn’t been dealing with it because Sonia terrified him into thinking he was _sick_ and _dirty._

She invalidates the hell out of mental illness, always talking about her one sister who Eddie knows suffers from depression as someone who should be institutionalized for the sake of the human race—a rabid dog who should be put down to spare the rest of their suffering. His aunt is a sweet woman. She never touches him without asking to, even with just a hug hello. Of course, Sonia does all of this while simultaneously over-validating physical illnesses to the point where Eddie simply assumed he was crazy when he realized he didn’t have asthma up until the counselor told him about the difference between nervousness and anxiousness.

Eddie tries not to hate his mother for the shit she spews. He isn’t sure how well he’s succeeded.

“You gonna try Xanax or something?” Richie continues.

“Why, so you can steal some while I’m sleeping?”

“Not _just_ that!” Richie cries with a shit-eating grin.

“Nah. Terrified of medication,” Eddie says as they both putter around the room. Richie gets Eddie a sweatshirt because sleeping in his meatball coat (ugh, now even _he_  is calling it the meatball coat, fuck you, Richie) is not a sustainable idea, and he’s only wearing a t-shirt underneath.

“But you took it for years,” Richie points out, throwing him a blue sweatshirt with some kind of ugly-looking dragon on it, weathered and soft and worn, one of Richie’s favorites. After standing up to shrug it on, Eddie nods.

“I know. That’s why. I’m afraid none of it actually helps.”

“Well sure, the _placebos_ don’t help, Eds,” Richie says, jumping back onto his bed. Eddie watches him bounce, unimpressed as he walks closer. “But the real shit? You might actually find some relief in that fucked up little brain of yours.” Richie reaches up from where Eddie is staring down at him to tap his temple. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Like you don’t wake up sweating from nightmares about clowns every night,” Eddie snarks with a smile as he lays down beside Richie, covering his hands with the long sleeves of Richie’s sweatshirt. “I’d know, Richie. We sleep in the same bed most nights.”

“Yeah, well. Match made in heaven, then.” Richie leans up to grab the dark blue comforter at the foot of the bed that’s covered in constellations and Eddie puts his hands in front of his cheeks to hide his blush, body curling in on itself. Richie leans over Eddie to flick off the lamp and the room is plunged into darkness save for the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. In this bed, in this room, Eddie feels safe. Safer than the inhaler or the pills—fake or real—could ever make him feel. Richie’s trashmouthed Voices, his unhealthy coping mechanisms, all of it. He finds it impossible to feel unsafe around Richie Tozier.

He remembers moving Bill’s classification in his head from _boy_ to _safe,_ but he doesn’t think he can do that with Richie and still not get butterflies whenever their skin brushes. Richie is so much more than _boy_ and _safe,_ and when he realizes what Richie actually is, he knows he has to tell him.

“Hey, Rich?” Eddie says, half whisper, half hope. He can see the outline of Richie’s face from the glow of the closed curtain behind him, lit up only slightly from the streetlight a little ways down the road. He watches his eyelashes flutter and Eddie aches to touch him. He doesn’t.

“Yeah?”

Eddie gets four hours of sleep a night on average. He is terrified to be alone. He is scared of every shadow he sees.

He is never scared around Richie.

“I’m gay.”

The apples of Richie’s cheeks swell slightly in a smile. “Yeah?” The word is weighted much differently now. Half question, half hope.

“Yeah.” Eddie remembers _super-mostly_ and he doesn’t think he has to ask if it’s okay, but he does anyway. “Is that alright?”

“Sure, Eds,” Richie nods. He shuffles closer almost imperceptibly. Eddie notices. “‘S more than alright.”

“Yeah?” All hope. Richie covers Eddie’s hand that’s still balled in a fist with the sweatshirt over it. His fingers relax and the tips of his fingers peek out and touch Richie’s palm. _Boy_ and _safe_ and _home._

“Yeah.”


	8. October, 1992

_I’ve got a hunger twisting my stomach into knots_  
_That my tongue has tied off_  
_My brain’s repeating: if you’ve got an impulse, let it out!  
_ _But they never make it past my mouth_

—The Sound of Settling, Death Cab For Cutie

 

Eddie is trying very adamantly to not freak out about the state of his and Richie’s relationship. _He_ thinks he’s doing a _great_ job. His other five friends who are not Richie disagree entirely. Jury’s out on Richie’s opinion on the matter, which is honestly part of the problem. Not that he’d admit that to anyone.

The scene is _loud_ in a thousand different ways. When Richie told the group that he’d gotten them invited to Sally Mueller’s Halloween Party, Eddie had groaned. He knew the rest of them would want to go—namely because Sally’s parents are bloody filthy rich, living right in the center of town in a huge white house. She’s part of the infamous, elite West Broadway gang that all hate Beverly needlessly and make Eddie’s blood boil as a result. But Richie had promised alcohol and possibly other substances with a significant look complete with hopping eyebrows to Beverly. She just shoved him and asked him what time. Eddie wanted to kill everyone on earth, but if Beverly was willing to go even if the girl who’s hosting it tortured her when they were in middle school, Eddie felt he had no place to fight the matter.

Halloween was _supposed_ to be spent trick-or-treating and then going back to Bill’s to gorge on candy and watch the scary movie marathon on SyFy like it _always is._ But for some ungodly reason, Richie has decided for them as a collective that they were officially ‘too old for that shit’ and needed to do something to put them on the social map. Eddie has never wanted to be off of a map more in his life. What the fuck is Richie thinking? They’re social pariahs, all of them, and one stupid party isn’t going to change that. They’re called the Losers’ Club for a fucking reason.

Richie, however, will _not_ listen to reason, and so they’re all decked out in their elaborate costumes ringing Sally Mueller’s doorbell. Eddie can hear people screaming from inside. He can practically _taste_ the stench of weed that has somehow permeated to the outside world. He already wants to choke Richie out for dragging them all here. That’s nothing out of the ordinary, but it’s basically all he can think about right now.

He doesn’t though because Richie seems so genuinely fucking excited in his stupid generic store-bought red letterman jacket, and they’re basically wearing the equivalent to a couple’s costume, and Eddie is weak as absolute shit. He wasn’t always this weak. He doesn’t know how or when Richie changed him into a person who goes along with stupid fucking ideas, but this is who he is now. There’s no going back—especially since Bill and Richie are his ride, and Bill looks equally as excited to be here as Eddie’s dumbass crush does.

Yes, Eddie has a _crush._ He has never had a crush on anybody before in his life, but he has one on Richard ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier. Or, maybe he has, but has never thought to use that word. He thought for a long time he was incapable of them, but he knows better now. He knows a lot better. Admitting to this out loud is a different story though.

When Richie picked Eddie up for the night, he wolf-whistled and crowed, “Guess somebody left the fanny pack at home!” out the driver’s side window. Eddie had just blushed, mumbled incoherently and slid into the passenger’s seat that Bill had vacated to sit in the back instead. Eddie always rides shotgun in Richie's parents’ car—it's assumed, especially considering Richie always demands it. He doesn't like to think about the implications of that for too long. He doesn't want to think about how he's defending himself less and less with Richie’s crass compliments and dumbass nicknames. He doesn't want to think about any of it, because he's afraid if he does, his stupid crush will be obvious. Everyone will know, especially Richie, and that absolutely cannot happen.

But he's weak, he's soft, and so he's here at a stupidly big house with his stupidly handsome crush facing a stupidly gorgeous girl who’s wearing a stupid sexy-cat costume. He doesn't know how he got here. He feels like a moron. He absolutely does not belong. But he's here anyway because Richie asked (begged) him to come. He said their costumes would look dumb if they weren't together, and that he had no interest in going to a party that Eddie wouldn't be at. Eddie just blushed and very reluctantly agreed. He's been blushing a lot lately. Richie has, too. He has no idea what's going on, but he's nervous around Richie almost constantly. That's never happened before. Richie has always been a safe place to hide for Eddie. He's still safe, but ever since he stopped hiding, he's felt too much stupid, mushy shit for anything to be considered _normal._ Eddie has never been normal, but then again, neither has Richie. He aches for normalcy to return from war, and maybe Richie does, too. Maybe that's why they're all at this _stupid fucking party._

It's not helping that Richie looks unfairly good tonight. Has he mentioned that? He feels it bears repeating.

Eddie and Richie are dressed as Bill and Ted respectively from _Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure._ Eddie borrowed one of Bill’s (the friend, not the character) plethora of plaid shirts to tie around his waist and even let Beverly cut off the bottom half of one of his old, ratty t-shirts his mother wouldn’t notice missing from the wash for maximum authenticity. Eddie demanded (asked nicely) that Beverly also patch up Richie’s jeans for him as well since he poked himself too many times with the sewing needle and Eddie was getting annoyed at having to deal with bandaging him. She also straightened Richie’s hair before they left, which Eddie did _not_  ask for, and it's been falling in his eyes since the moment Eddie got in the car. Richie had no idea his hair would be so long when straightened. Eddie supposes he didn't take his curls into account.

It should look stupid—they're both _supposed_ to look stupid—but Eddie can't stop staring. He's watching Richie schmooze a few girls from the grade above them into letting him make drinks for them and Eddie burns with jealousy from where he's in the corner of the room with Stanley sipping a beer. He’s barely had more than a pull of it due to how terribly cheap it is. He knows Richie has attention deficit issues and that he's not intentionally ignoring Eddie, he's just distracted right now. He knows this _logically._ Eddie is not a very logical person though, and every time someone laughs at something Richie says, Eddie scoffs.

Justifiably, Stanley is done with his shit.

“Jesus, Kaspbrak,” he sighs after ten long minutes of this, “you're acting like Richie’s never forgotten we existed before.”

“Well—”

“Ah, that's right,” Stanley smirks, “he's usually forgetting everyone but _you_ exists.” He sounds equal parts sage, sarcastic and bored, and Eddie would be impressed if he weren't so annoyed. “Must be so _tough_ not having the attention of Trashmouth Tozier all to yourself. My heart goes out to you.”

“I don't care that I don't have his attention,” Eddie huffs. Stanley levels him a look that he disagrees with the implications of, thus resolutely ignoring to preserve his pride. “Whatever, it's not like you're having fun either.”

“Sure, but we all knew that was gonna be a long shot anyway.” Stanley cracks a smile, and Eddie can't help but return it. Stanley cocks his head in Richie’s direction. “Go over and say hi.”

“I say hi to him everyday,” Eddie says, shaking his head on another long pull from the bottle. “It's fine.”

“It's clearly _not_ fine,” Stanley chuckles. “God knows why, though. Whatever, go make me a drink then. I demand a scotch and soda on the rocks from one Eddie Kaspbrak, Bartender Extraordinaire.”

“You're such a little shit,” Eddie laughs, handing Stanley his mostly-full, very shitty beer. “Fine. I'll be back.”

“Sure you will,” Stanley assures him sarcastically. Eddie wants to whack him over the head just a little bit, but he doesn't. He goes over to where Richie is measuring shots blindly and assuring the crowd that he's _done this before, it's gonna taste great._ Eddie is certain whatever he's mixing with _pickle juice_ will be abhorrent. He tugs on Richie's jacket sleeve and when Richie looks down at him, his eyes light up.

“Bill Preston!” Richie giggles, pulling Eddie into a one-armed hug. He can smell the alcohol on Richie’s breath like a tangible, physical thing in the air. He grimaces. “Hey, Billy, how's it hangin’?”

“Fuck off, dumbass,” Eddie laughs, shoving him slightly to dislodge Richie’s arm. “What could you possibly be making?”

“It's called a Pickleback!” Richie grins and then immediately gasps at Eddie's blank look. “Folks, lookie here! We got ourselves a Pickleback Virgin!”

“God, Richie, shut the fuck up,” he grumbles under his breath as Richie's audience laughs.

“No can do, Eds, I gotta pop your… _pickle.”_ His grin turns devious as his eyes rake over Eddie’s body, getting snagged on the vast amount of exposed skin where his shirt cuts off. Eddie's stomach swoops and squirms, and he’s a little bit afraid Richie will be able to _tell_ from how hard he’s staring at it.

“I really don't think you do.”

“Aw, c'mon, Eds, we’ll make it fun!” Richie says, snapping out of his reverie and pouring a shot of something that definitely doesn’t look like a Pickleback before hoisting it up in the air proudly. It smells like floor cleaner and cinnamon, and Eddie doesn’t really want to drink _that_  either, but he has Richie’s attention and a point to prove, so he doesn’t say no. “Grab Stanley and a cup of water and come outside.”

“That doesn't sound promising.”

It isn't promising. Eddie is far too sober to be standing out in the cold about to do what Richie calls a ‘Hurricane Shot.’ He stands Eddie against the railing of the deck as he regally explains to the crowd that’s amassed (and Stanley, who needs instructions) what they’re about to do. Eddie is less than impressed.

“Fuck no, I’m not doing that,” Eddie frowns, shaking his head and crossing his arms stubbornly. Richie rolls his eyes.

“Of course you’re not. You’re too chicken.” Eddie glares.

“I’m not chicken.”

“Then do it,” Richie dares, leaning in closer with a maddening smirk. Eddie wants to kiss the living shit out of him, but with the amount of people around and the fact that they’ve kind of never done that before, he doesn’t.

“Fine. Stanley, you’re up,” Eddie says, pointing for Stanley and Richie to stand in front of him.

“I just want you both to know that this dick-measuring contest is by far the stupidest one yet,” Stanley says flatly. They both ignore him as Richie hands Stanley the full cup of water and Eddie the pickleback shot.

“On your mark, Eds.” Eddie’s glare intensifies and he lines up the shot glass with his lips.

“Don’t call me that,” he murmurs, just quietly enough that he knows only Richie hears it, and then downs the shot. It’s just as bad as he assumed it’d be. His eyes are still squeezed shut when Stanley throws the cup of water in his face. He shrieks, and even though he knows it’s coming, Richie’s slap is still even more jarring than the terrible shot or the cold water. His heart is thundering in his chest as he puts the glass down on the deck to wipe his eyes with his mouth hanging open in shock. But then he looks at Richie, and he can hear the crowd cheering, but it’s distant, everything fading and the world slowing down and narrowing to just Richie’s dark, liquid eyes, and the stinging in his cheek. The steel blue of Richie’s irises have almost disappeared from how blown his pupils are. Eddie’s stomach drops out at the sight and his skin stings and catches fire.

Maybe he doesn’t have to hide his stupid fucking crush if Richie has one, too.

“C’mon,” he mumbles, grabbing Richie by the shirt. “Gotta dry off.” He says this louder for the people around them, a plausible cover story, when in reality, his mind is focused on only one thing: Richie’s skin on his.

Eddie knows he should be happy with what he has. He and Richie are out to each other, everything is going as smoothly as it can possibly go at home, he's getting perfectly acceptable grades. But Eddie wants more. He has Bill’s sage voice from childhood in the back of his head— _want nothing, have everything_ —but it's not enough to keep him from aching for something real with Richie. Something _else._ Not more, just different. What he and Richie have has always been beyond what he has with anybody else; they can have conversations without speaking, set each other ablaze with excitement and anger and _everything._ They're best fucking friends. Eddie doesn't want to jeopardize that because of some dumb fucking crush.

But here he is, doing just that.

Eddie manages to drag a stumbling Richie into an empty room, and only after he looks around is when he realizes the magnitude of the situation. This is somebody’s _room._ It looks to be the bedroom of Sally’s mysteriously absent parents. There’s an adjoining-bathroom and a balcony facing the Kenduskeag. It’s _nice._ Way too rich for Eddie’s blood, at least. He’s never even _been_ in a house with three stories in it that wasn’t on Neibolt Street, and that had been quite literally falling apart and drenched in the kind of evil that haunts him even still. The carpet under their feet is plush and Eddie feels bad putting his dirty shoes on it, so he slips them off and leaves them by the door.

He looks up to see if Richie’s done the same and finds him staring, wide-eyed and affectionate, caught between fond and terrified.

“Getting comfy?” Richie asks, chuckling nervously.

“Something like that.” Eddie goes to sit on the bed before he realizes that he’s still sopping wet and veers into the bathroom to towel off. He doesn’t close the door, but Richie doesn’t follow. Eddie can hear him poking around the room, turning lights on and off, his boots dropping onto the floor one by one. He hears him take a few books off the shelf before the springs of the bed squeak. Eddie goes to the doorway and leans his hip against the frame to watch Richie read from the soft light of the lamp on the bedside table, the only light source in the room aside from the moon coming through the window. He’s laying down on the bed now, socked feet kicked up in the air, fully absorbed in the story within a matter of seconds. Eddie likes him so fucking much it makes him a little angry.

“Wha’cha readin’?” Eddie smiles. Richie flinches slightly, perhaps having forgotten where he even was, and flips the book to look at the cover before Eddie can even apologize for spooking him.

 _“1984,”_ he responds, and Eddie’s blood runs cold. What had he been thinking, dragging Richie to an empty room to, what, fuck him? Yeah, right. They’re 16 for shit’s sake, and despite the fact that Eddie has told Richie about his sexuality, he’s nowhere near ready for that kind of intimacy yet. Especially with a boy. Eddie knows about _super-mostly_ and how Richie lost his virginity earlier this year to a girl in his Geometry class. Despite Richie’s lauding about how _great_ sex was going to be for about half their lives, he didn’t seem too excited when he told Eddie. Casual is the best word to describe it. Like it hadn’t been something wonderful or enjoyable, but rather necessary. Eddie doesn’t want that, and he doesn’t want a tipsy hookup with someone who’s _everything_ either. He wants everything he does to matter.

“Don’t read that,” Eddie says, voice wobbling slightly from anxiety. “It’s shit.” Richie immediately drops the book on his chest at the tone of Eddie’s voice and looks over to him worriedly.

“You’ve read it?” Eddie just nods. “It’s on our assigned reading list for Honors English this year so I thought I’d read ahead, espcially considering I already finished _Lord of the Flies.”_

“How do you know? I didn’t think the syllabus gave us all the books we’d read this year.”

“It doesn’t,” Richie grins. “I saw the list on Serson’s desk.”

“Richie!” Eddie chides, putting the towel back on the rack and walking over to the bed. He sits down, trying to be careful, but the alcohol in his system is starting to hit and he ends up pitching backwards, head falling onto Richie’s stomach, a little punch of air coming out of Richie as a result.

“Oof! Are heads supposed to be that heavy?”

“They are when they’re filled with knowledge. I’m sure that giant head of yours is just filled with helium.” Richie shakes Eddie with laughter, knees curling inward and hands covering his face. Eddie turns to smile up at him. He pokes at Richie’s red and yellow jacket, shaking the lapel. “Take this shit off, you look like if Winnie the Pooh were a jock.”

Richie sits up to do so, laughing even harder now, and Eddie sits up with him, still smiling. He drops the jacket behind his head and then looks over at Eddie.

“What?” he asks, still chuckling.

“I like it when you laugh,” Eddie says, the words tumbling out of him accidentally.

“Oh, yeah?” Richie grins. Eddie nods, shuffling closer. Richie reaches out as soon as Eddie’s close enough to wrap his fingers around his wrist and tug so he falls into his lap.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, shuffling so his folded legs are resting comfortably on either side of Richie’s. He rests his hands on Richie’s shoulders for balance. “You don’t talk. I love it when you don’t talk.”

Richie laughs again, head thrown back in delight. Eddie stares. And perhaps he wouldn’t have done what he does next if there weren’t alcohol in his system. Or maybe he would’ve. He doesn’t feel very drunk, hasn’t really had enough alcohol to warrant this, but maybe the universe wants them in this huge house, in this empty room, on this soft bed, in each other’s laps. Maybe Eddie was pulling Richie’s wrist through the house and fate was pulling his on own.

Or maybe they chose their own fates. Because either way, God would definitely not approve of Eddie leaning in closer to press his lips against Richie’s neck. He wouldn’t approve of the shocked, choked gasp that cuts off Richie’s laugh. He wouldn’t approve of Richie’s hands like brands coming up to sear his hips as he clutches them tightly, careful not to touch his skin. He wouldn’t approve of the way they both _burn._

Eddie continues his slow, methodical kissing, spurred on by Richie’s reaction, and he feels Richie’s muscles relax slightly as his head lolls sideways to give him more room. But when Eddie pulls the thin skin of his neck into his mouth and sucks hard, Richie tenses again, fingers digging into the meat of Eddie’s hips. His head shoots up and his spine straightens, nearly pitching Eddie off his lap with the force of it, which certainly won’t do. Eddie sinks his fingers into Richie’s hair that’s curling slightly despite Beverly nearly frying it off with the straightener a few hours earlier, and _pulls._ Richie head falls back with a moan that comes out in several broken parts. His hips buck off the bed, trying to press into Eddie’s, and Eddie smirks against Richie’s neck as he presses his lips there once again, now intentionally trying to leave a mark.

Richie’s hands—perhaps accidentally, perhaps not—slip underneath Eddie’s open button-down to grab at the skin of his hips exposed by the cut-off shirt to drag him closer. They’re pressed chest to chest and Eddie abandons his abuse of Richie’s neck to pull back and observe his work. Richie is panting heavily, eyes wide with something akin to shock, pupils even more blown than they were on the deck, neck bruised to shit. Eddie did that; he made Richie’s neck bloom scarlet and his breath catch in his throat. He’s  _turned Richie on._ Eddie can feel the phantom sting of Richie’s hand on his cheek, and suddenly, he wants more. He grinds his hips down and he can feel Richie’s dick even through his jeans. Richie whines high in his throat and into Eddie’s mouth. Their lips are just barely touching as Eddie does it again, with more purpose this time. Richie’s eyelids flutter closed, reverent. Holy and unholy all at once. _Everything. Home._

And suddenly, this is too much too soon.

Eddie climbs off of him quickly and ungracefully, hot from arousal and embarrassment, sliding off the bed and pacing around the room. Richie is still sitting on the bed, left in a state of shock.

“What was that? What was that?” Eddie mutters, barely paying attention to Richie. He’s thinks he might wear a hole through the floor, the soles of his feet burning from dragging them across the carpet so quickly. Richie adjusts himself as subtly as he can (which, admittedly, is not that subtly, but the gesture is appreciated nonetheless) and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He watches Eddie carefully. He feels like a wounded animal that Richie seems afraid to approach without spooking. Eddie turns to him, spine rigid from anxiety, and sees that Richie’s palms are open and facing upward on his thighs, like he’s ready to catch the acid rain that follows Eddie around and let it eat away at his own skin just to save Eddie a little bit of pain. It’s a nice thought, that Richie is willing to cut himself on Eddie’s broken pieces.

But Eddie doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Richie to bleed anymore than he already has to. He’s got his own brokenness to deal with.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie whispers, terrified. He wants to continue, maybe to qualify what he’s sorry for, but he can’t force the words out of his mouth.

Richie shakes his head. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Eddie chuckles. “That was really fucking stupid.”

“Why?” Richie asks, open to any answer Eddie has to give. He’s too good for Eddie, for this devil town, for the world at large.

“Because we’re drunk, sort of. We’re at a dumb party that I didn’t even want to go to, and I didn’t even ask first before I did any of that, and we haven’t even told each other anything really important, and it isn’t the right time!” Eddie hadn’t even realized his voice had risen to a high-pitched squeak until he’s finished ranting. He snaps his mouth shut and Richie tilts his head consideringly with a touch of confusion in his features.

“But I wanted you to,” is all he says in response. And perhaps that’s all he needed to for Eddie to feel at peace. All the fight rushes out of him with a burst of air past his lips.

“Really?” Eddie asks, but he’s nodding, like he’s already accepted the answer, or is trying to get Richie to agree with him. Maybe both.

“Of course I did.” Richie smiles, and Eddie smiles back, and nothing has changed. They’re still them. Eddie wonders if he should’ve ever been worrying about the state of their relationship at all. Richie jumps off the bed and strides over to the door, dropping down to tug his boots on. “I need a smoke. You comin’?”

Eddie shakes his head in disgust, but reaches down to pull his shoes on as well. Richie pulls him out of the room with a quiet _c’mon_ and they leave the drunkenness and the fear and too soon and _1984_ behind the closed door.

When they go outside, they find Beverly smoking a few yards away from the house and the night ends like most of them do: Richie smoking with Beverly and cracking jokes while Eddie laughs despite himself. The rest of the group finds them eventually, and they’re seven again. Lucky Seven. Holy Seven. Social pariahs, but not alone despite this. Richie pulls his last cigarette out of the pack and holds it up to the group.

“Anyone dare me to eat this?” Eddie opens his mouth to berate him, but Beverly beats him to the punch.

“Yes. Die.”

 _“Bev!”_ Eddie shrieks admonishingly. They all burst out laughing, and perhaps nothing has to change even when it feels like everything has. Perhaps nothing has to change even if Eddie wants it to.

 _Not yet,_ he tells himself, laying down in the wet grass to look at the stars. The others join him, Beverly’s head resting on his stomach that’s bare from the baggy shirt that’s cut in half. Richie comes to tuck his head into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder, curled around him; half protective, half affectionate. All of Richie’s touches seem to be like that: loaded with conflicted meaning that Eddie doesn’t have the strength to sift through anymore. But maybe the meaning doesn’t matter so long as Eddie touches him back. Maybe fate pulled him down onto the ground and urged Richie’s hand to tangle in his, unseen by the rest of them but known by them both. Maybe fate puts his other hand in Beverly’s hair, pushing the curls away from her eyes. Maybe fate puts the first peaceful smile Beverly’s ever had on her face with a man’s hand in her hair. Maybe fate dragged them all together by the wrists one summer and forced them to hold on long after the summer had ended.

Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe they all chose each other despite the evil begging at the corners of their lives and trying desperately to force them all apart and separate their worlds. They still hold on tight despite everything with scarred palms and thundering hearts. Eddie doesn’t know which version is more beautiful, or filled with more truth. Maybe it doesn’t matter as long as they all keep holding on.

He smiles at the sky. His hand tightens around Richie’s. He holds on.


	9. February, 1993

_You and me, diamond ring_  
_We could do our own thing_  
_Be my friend, be my love_  
_Follow me to get lost all the time_  
_If I die, I will lay by your side_

—If I Die Before You, Ludwig Göransson

 

Richie crashes his father’s car on February 8th, 1993.

The scene is abjectly terrifying and Eddie can’t stop _moving._ He isn’t sure why Maggie Tozier called him from the hospital to tell him that Richie had gotten injured driving home that night, but he almost wishes she hadn’t. He knows in his heart that isn’t true, that he wants to be wherever Richie is at all times, but Eddie doesn’t do well in hospitals. Regardless, he still called Bill to have his parents drive them so he wouldn’t have to tell his mother that he’ll be exposed to potential diseases. He tells her he’s sleeping at Bill’s instead, and she warily agrees despite his very apparent skittishness. He gets into Sharon Denbrough’s minivan when she pulls up at 10 P.M. and she drives them all to the hospital in her pajamas and slippers with Eddie staring expressionless out the side window, a blank slate of emotion aside from the intense tremor in his hands.

They aren’t sure of Richie’s status. Eddie is petrified he’s going to lose him. He hasn’t been this scared in almost four years. If the clown were awake to see this, Eddie’s sure it’d be feasting.

Richie has been getting high lately. Not often, and never alone, but enough so that Eddie is worried he was driving under the influence when he got in the car accident. He doesn’t tell Maggie or Wentworth this because there’s some secrets that only best friends know. _It’s only weed,_ he told Eddie a few weeks ago with a casual shrug that didn’t at all fit the serious nature of the topic. _Nothing serious. Promise._

 _Just be smart, Richie,_ Eddie had replied. He prays to God Richie was smart. He prays the accident was out of Richie’s hands. He prays that Richie is safe. He prays for forgiveness.

He calls Beverly from the payphone at the hospital to find out if he’d been with her, considering they usually smoke together. He hadn’t been, and Beverly is in a tizzy with worry, promising that she’d get to the hospital as soon as she could and would alert the others. If Richie wasn’t with Beverly, then he must’ve been sober. Eddie chooses to think this because otherwise, he might actually have a heart attack.

Then he thinks about _you can’t even kill yourself, Trashmouth,_ and then he stops thinking at all. He can’t go down the path that leads to Richie doing this on purpose. He can’t. He won’t. Richie wouldn’t do that to him. He’s certain of it.

He tries to be certain of it.

Eddie prays a lot, even though he isn’t entirely sure he really believes in God. He thinks if God’s friends wrote so many weird things in the Bible about gay people and slaves, then maybe He shouldn’t be as highly revered as He is. Still, he can’t shake his own Christian upbringing, and he still prays sometimes in bouts of worry. He can’t step foot in a church anymore. He’s been feeling weird about the whole concept since he was 11 years old, but once he accepted his sexuality and realized that there can’t possibly be a God if something as heinous as Pennywise exists on Earth, he felt vile every time he even passed by the building. He’s made up an excuse about why he can’t go that week to his mother every single Sunday for two straight years. He had a lot of fake science projects to do over the years. He thought she’d eventually get the hint and stop asking. She hasn’t. But compulsive praying isn’t something he’s been able to shake yet.

After an hour and a half without word from the doctors, Eddie begins aimlessly wandering the halls. Eddie remembers that there’s a chapel in this hospital from when his father was sick. His mother prayed in there a lot, and he would go with her sometimes and ask God to fix his parents’ sadness. The walk to the chapel is so oddly ingrained in his feet that he doesn’t even need to look at the signs to get there. _Our compass,_ Bill called him when Eddie led them all out of the sewers and into the light. Maybe his heart isn’t made of blood and veins, but direction.

The tiny chapel is empty when Eddie opens the wooden door with a small panel of stained glass in it. There’s two rows of old, worn pews in front of a large cross and another even larger piece of stained glass that spans the entire far wall. Eddie sits in the first row. He looks past Jesus’ hyper-realistic form nailed to the cross and instead studies the stained glass. It’s of Mother Mary looking upwards towards the sky and holding Baby Jesus in her arms. In the top right hand corner, the sun shines with a bright yellow that makes Eddie feel warm just looking at it. The colors are so vibrant and lovely from the lamps lighting it up. Eddie was taught to close his eyes when he prays, but he can’t seem to look away from the glass.

“Dear God,” he says quietly, but even with the softness of his voice, it still echoes canvernously throughout the tiny room, “I know it’s been a while since we talked. Sorry about that. I hope things are good up there. Say hi to my dad for me. I know how busy you must be, so I’ll keep it short. There’s a kid down here named Richie Tozier who might be trying to get to you way too soon. I need you to tell him no. I need you to let him live. I didn’t ask for you to let my dad live when he died. I don’t ask for big things, God, and I know you’ve got your hands tied with this kinda shit a lot of the time. The life and death shit.” His face screws in distaste. “Am I not supposed to curse? Sorry. Anyway, I just need you not to keep him if he comes to your pearly gates or whatever they really are. Send him away, alright? Send him back to me. I’ll take real good care of him, I promise. I won’t let him make anymore dumb mistakes. There’s just... some things I have to say to him. There’s still stuff left for him to do.”

He sighs deeply, finally breaking his gaze with the art on the wall to stare at his hands squeezing each other tightly in his lap. “If you need to, you can take me early.” His voice is so quiet. Serious. Trying so adamantly to appear stronger than he is, but still very noticeably terrified. His hands begin shaking. “I don’t know if that’s how this works: a life for a life. But if you need to, you can take me instead. Maybe not right now. But later. The sooner-than-necessary type of later. You get it.” He pauses and lets his eyes fall closed. “Thank you, Lord, for listening. I hope you take this into consideration even though I don’t ever really talk to you. I promise I will more if you keep him alive. I’ll thank you every single day.”

He opens his eyes and looks back at Mary’s face. She looks hopeful. “In the name of the Lord, our God. Amen. Ah-men? Whatever. You get it.”

He nods decisively and leaves the room. He wanders back to the waiting room, and when he gets there, everyone except the Toziers are asleep. Eddie looks to them, expression hopeful and expectant, but they shake their heads drowsily. Stanley, Mike and Beverly have all arrived while he was wandering the halls, but have since fallen asleep. He’s sure Ben is at least trying to get to them. This is who they are: they’re there for each other when the cards are down, when the world’s hands are tied, when it seems like no one else is. Eddie chooses not to wake them, knowing it’s past 1 A.M. right now. He’s wired though, so when he sits down in the seat he’s already wiped down with disinfectant beside Bill, his knee begins bouncing rapidly, trying to get out the terror he feels coursing through him with his movements. They should’ve heard something other than that he’s in the ICU by now. It’s been hours.

Eddie thinks of Mary’s expression in the glass. He thinks of all they still have left to say. He hopes.

About 20 minutes after returning to the waiting room, the nurse who told them that Richie is in the ICU walks back in. She scans the room and finds them all in varying states of sleep except for Eddie who bolts up and onto his feet at the sight of her, jostling Bill who had been leaning against him in the process.

“Any news?” Eddie asks.

“I can only tell the next of kin,” the nurse informs him regretfully, and Eddie sighs harshly, walking over to gently wake Wentworth and Maggie and alert them the nurse is here. They had only been dozing lightly, and they groggily stand up and quickly stumble over to the nurse together, clinging to each other fearfully. Eddie trails behind at a respectful distance, wishing he had someone to cling to, too.

“Richard is stable,” the nurse tells them, eyeing Eddie behind them. They all let out a sigh of relief. Eddie isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be listening or not. Probably not. He does anyway. “His arm was broken in two places as well as his clavicle and he messed up his knee pretty badly. There’s a lot of fluid buildup in the point of impact. This is normal; it serves as protection for the joint. We might have to drain a bit if it hasn’t gone down by morning though. The worst of it, however, is his ribs. Three of them are broken, and one of them snapped with the airbag’s deployment. It punctured his lung, which was why we needed to spend so long in surgery. He pulled through, though. We lost him for a moment, but he’s stable now. You should be very proud of your son. He’s a real trooper.”

Maggie sobs in relief, body collapsing inward. Wentworth is barely able to keep his grip on her. Eddie’s knees buckle and he closes his eyes.

 _Thank you,_ he says in his head to whoever was listening in the chapel. _I’ll tell you that everyday._

“Can we see him?” Wentworth asks, closer to begging than anything else. The nurse nods warily.

“He’s still out from the morphine we had to pump him with, but yes.”

“Can I come, too?” Eddie pipes from behind them. They all turn their attention to him and he shrivels a bit under their intense gazes.

“Only family. My apologies,” the nurse says, not looking particularly sorry at all. Maggie frowns consideringly.

“Eddie is his best friend. Richie’ll want to see him when he wakes up,” she tells the nurse. “Can’t you make an exception? Just this once?” Wentworth nods in agreement with his wife.

“He’ll ask for Eddie anyway, and there’s very few people who can say no to Richie Tozier,” he says, voice laden with fondness. Eddie had always been a fan of Maggie and Wentworth Tozier. They have always had an obvious love for their son even if they don’t always understand him, but deeper than that, they actually like him. Maggie always humors Richie’s jokes good-naturedly and Wentworth even goes along with them sometimes, going as far as to make up some voices to go with Richie’s. Eddie has always liked the Toziers. But in that moment, he loves them. Maybe even more than he’s ever loved his own mother.

“Alright,” the nurse agrees with a frown. “But no one else. We’re really only allowed to have two visitors at a time, especially in the ICU, and they have to be family. I’ll get into a lot of trouble if my superiors find out.”

“We won’t tell,” Wentworth promises, zipping his lips shut and tucking the key into his pocket. Eddie is reminded of Richie so strongly, he aches with it.

“Alright, c’mon,” she says. Eddie looks back to his friends. Sharon and most of the Losers’ Club are still in a light sleep, but Bill had woken up from Eddie jumping out of his seat so suddenly. Bill gives him two thumbs up and smile, permission to go without him. Eddie nods gratefully and follows the group further into the hospital. When they get to Richie’s room, they find that Richie has just woken up and is talking with his doctor. The woman who brought them to Richie’s room points to the nurse’s station and quietly tells Eddie to wait there while they finish up. Eddie does so and fiddles with his hands nervously, not making eye contact with anyone. It’s a few minutes before anyone attempts contact with him.

“First time in a hospital?” a woman asks from behind the desk, voice full of sympathy and false knowledge. Eddie looks up at her, eyes wide and owlish, and shakes his head slowly.

“No.”

Eddie breaks contact with her surprised eyes when he hears Richie’s door open and he watches as the doctor glides out of the room, the nurse hot on his heels. She doesn’t look at Eddie, assumingly having forgotten. Eddie makes his way over to the open door slowly and nervously. He knocks twice on the door when he peeks inside.

“Hey, dumbass,” he says with a nervous smile. Richie’s neck swivels excitedly to the door at the sound of his voice and Eddie winces when Richie hisses at the sudden movement.

“Ow, fuck, whiplash is a bitch,” Richie wheezes. Eddie frowns and walks into the room, closing the door behind him. Still rubbing at his neck, Richie smiles at him sweetly. “Hi, cutie.” Eddie takes a fortifying breath and shakes his head.

“You absolute fucking dumbass,” Eddie repeats, voice thick with so much emotion that he’s certain Richie won’t be able to pick out every one, especially with his mind still swimming in morphine. Richie must find something he likes in it, because his smile turns dazzling and puts out his unbroken arm, opening and closing his fist.

“C’mere,” he says sleepily, and Eddie thinks Wentworth was right: nobody can deny Richie Tozier anything. Eddie doesn’t know why anyone would even want to. He steps forward and lets Richie loosely fist his hand in Eddie’s hoodie. Or rather Richie’s hoodie that Eddie stole in November when the first frost hit. He was wearing it when Maggie called and he hadn’t even bothered to grab a jacket. He’s sure his mother will have a cow when she goes to put on her own in the morning and finds that all of his coats are accounted for.

But right now, he couldn’t care less about that, or even his mother at all. Right now, he only has eyes for Richie. Maybe he always does.

“Hi,” Eddie says. His voice is so small. So scared. From this close, he can see every cut and bruise that litters Richie’s face. His glasses are gone, perhaps wrecked in the accident, and he somehow looks so much smaller without them. The magnification the glasses give his eyes are as familiar to Eddie as his own hands. One of his eyes is swollen shut, the other is bruised to shit, and there’s a deep gash going through his right eyebrow that will probably leave a scar. To Eddie though, he’s still the most beautiful fucking thing on earth.

“Hi,” Richie says back, smiling lazily.

“I meant what I said.”

“About what?” Richie asks, eyes already closing.

“You’re a dumbass.” Richie sighs with a smile and nods in agreement.

“Yeah, but you love me.” Eddie’s cheeks flush but he stays silent. “You all do.”

“We do at that, son,” Wentworth replies, grabbing Richie’s hand when he loses his grip on Eddie’s sweatshirt and holding onto it tightly. “We definitely, definitely do.”

Richie calls his sister Lucy who’s in her first year of college per his parents’ insistence from the phone in his room to let her know he’s alright. Eddie can hear her berating him for being stupid through the phone, and Eddie likes her way more than he did previously after that, and he really was always very fond of her. After a while, the nurse comes back in to wheel Richie into recovery. There, he is allowed visitors that aren’t just family, and Eddie waits in the room with him while the Toziers go alert the rest of their friends. Richie whines about probably not being able to jerk off for _weeks_ because of his arm and Eddie slaps his good shoulder for the comment, blushing intensely.

“You’re gonna have to help a brother out, Eds. It’s only right. I would’ve done the same for you when you broke your arm had you only asked. Gotten down on my knees in the middle of the street like the sex god I am.”

“You were thirteen,” Eddie says flatly.

“And already so knowledgable. Take a good long look at what you gave up!” Richie screeches, causing Eddie to shush him just as loudly.

“I’m looking, I’m looking. But I don’t see much,” Eddie says, raising a brow at Richie’s gown-clad body. Richie hisses dramatically.

“Ouch, go easy on me, Eds, I’m fragile,” Richie pouts. “You’re gonna have to be gentle when ya give me a blowie later.”

“You think I’m going to give you a blowjob in a _hospital?”_ Eddie asks incredulously. “You sure you didn’t hit your head on impact, too?”

“Well, you’re not saying no to blowing me at all, so I’m _at least_ dreaming,” Richie grins. Eddie averts his eyes.

“Definitely dreaming,” he mumbles, the flush of his cheeks darkening even further. Before Richie can comment though, Beverly rushes in and crushes him in a hug, the rest quickly following, Ben now in tow. Eddie has never been more grateful for something distracting Richie in his life.

“Damn, let a man breathe, Beverly!” Richie winces. Beverly only pulls back a modicum, making sure she isn’t touching the broken arm resting on his chest wrapped in a sling but still touching him in every place he isn’t injured.

“Never. I’m _never_ letting you out of my sight _ever_ again,” she promises angrily, voice muffled into his shoulder.

“Aw, were you _concerned?”_ Richie mocks, wrapping one arm loosely around her back.

“Shut up, of course I was,” she grumbles. Stanley goes in next and whispers something in Richie’s ear that makes him jolt.

“Aw, fuck!” he yells. “Eds, you gotta go.”

 _“What?!”_ Eddie shouts, crossing his arms stubbornly. “No!”

“Just for a sec! I gotta talk to this shithead about some _family business.”_ Eddie thinks that might be his Gomez Addams Voice, but he doesn’t care as much about figuring it out as he would if he weren’t fuming.

“Oh, and I’m not family?” Eddie frowns with a raised eyebrow. Richie shakes his head with a smirk.

“Not ‘til I marry your mom. Then you can call me daddy all you’d like.” Eddie lets out a frustrated, high-pitched groan.

“Fine! Anything to escape your disgusting comments about my mother!”

“Jealousy is a green-eyed monster, my love,” Richie sings. Eddie sighs, throwing up his hands in frustrated defeat, and stomps out of the room towards the waiting room to join the Toziers.

“Hey, Eddie!” Maggie smiles cheerfully when walks into the room angrily, heedless of the people in his way. She’s grinning at him like he isn’t noticeably annoyed, and that makes him feel a skosh better. “You finally get sick of our son and kick him to the curb?”

“Something like that,” Eddie frowns, collapsing on the seat beside Wentworth and crossing his arms.

“Let me guess: he said something vulgar and obnoxious and you stormed out,” Wentworth says.

“Something closer to that…”

Maggie sighs fondly. “That idiot is so obvious.”

“About what?” Eddie asks, perking up slightly. “His taste for making sex jokes about my mom? Because he’s got those on lockdown.”

“Among other things, yes,” she responds with the same maddening, knowing smile that Richie gets when he knows something Eddie doesn’t. Eddie isn’t sure he even _wants_ to know what the _other things_ are though, especially from Richie’s parents. He’s certain that conversation would be deeply embarrassing no matter what way it goes.

“Did he tell you what happened in the car while I was out of the room earlier?” Eddie asks, aiming to distract them from the subject. It works; their faces are somber in an instant.

“Ah, yes,” Wentworth says with a solemn nod. “We knew he had my car; he was driving home after picking something up in Bangor. He was cryptic about what it was from the start, very cagey and weird. I can only imagine.” He rolls his eyes with a chuckle. “The car was totaled, so I’m sure whatever he got was, too.”

“He was swerving to avoid a deer,” Maggie explains.

“Classic Richie,” Eddie grumbles. “Would rather die than hurt anyone or anything.”

“We’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” Wentworth tuts worriedly. “He hit a telephone pole and apparently, the thing was precariously leaning on the car when the cops got to the scene. When they were putting him on the stretcher, it snapped and crushed the car completely.”

“Jesus…” Eddie breathes, eyes wide. “He could’ve…”

“Yeah,” Maggie says, voice a bit hollow and far away. “Easily.”

“Jesus,” Eddie repeats, and it comes out more like a curse than anything else. “We’re so fucking lucky.”

“We really fucking are,” Maggie responds. They all smile softly at each other. Their boy is okay. He’s safe. He’ll recover. Eddie realizes then, staring at these people who love Richie so deeply and completely that he loves him right along with them. He really, truly _loves_ Richie Tozier. He knows Wentworth already said that in the ICU, and Eddie hadn’t disagreed. It just took a little while for the reality of that fact to sink in. Eddie has known Richie nearly as long as they’ve both been alive. He doesn’t really remember life without him in it. He doesn’t ever want to have a life without Richie in it. Maybe that’s stupid. Maybe that’s reckless.

 _Maybe,_ Eddie realizes, _that’s love._ Wanting someone in your life so desperately you’ll make deals with a God you don’t even believe in just to keep them breathing. Knowing someone for so long, you don’t know who you are without.

He’s known about his own crush on Richie for a long time. Richie is unavoidable, undeniable. But that night, he thinks about _loving_ Richie Tozier for the first time since he was six years old.

The truth of it rings holier than the hospital chapel’s stained glass window in his head.

A week later, Richie is still recovering. He hasn’t been able to go school, so Eddie brings him his makeup work every afternoon. Sometimes they hang out for a little while, sometimes Richie’s too tired or grumpy to want to. Eddie understands—he’s doped up on some heavy-duty drugs right now and Eddie doesn’t want to bother him anymore than he has to.

He doesn’t even realize what the day is when he goes to bring Richie his schoolwork on February 14th. To Eddie, it’s just another boring Tuesday without Richie. But he realizes when he walks into Richie’s room that evening that it’s much more than that for his best friend.

He had been a little late getting to the Toziers; his mother wouldn’t drop him off right away and instead brought him home so they could have dinner together. _It’s been so long since we had our mommy-son time,_ she pouted when he entered the car after school and asked to go to Richie’s. She was close to tears. _I miss my Eddie Bear so much._ Eddie relented and they watched Days of Our Lives together until dinner. Eddie didn’t particularly mind watching the show—the new guy they got to play Jack Derveaux is pretty cute—but he was restless with wanting to check on Richie. Even though his mother was highly against it, after dinner she allowed him to bike to Richie’s to drop off his work, reminding him of his 9 o’clock curfew.

The first thing he notices upon entering Richie’s room is two things: the mess of dirty clothes and wrappers that usually littering Richie’s floor is not there, and the floor is instead covered in a truly terrifying amount of candles. Like, seriously, around 40 candles, placed on every surface in the room in varying sizes, colors and aromas. Maybe the goal was for the room to smell nice (probably to cover the heavy smell of body odor that lingers constantly in the room), but in reality, it just smells like smoke. Eddie is pretty sure there’s a trail of flower petals leading to Richie’s bed. He can’t be sure—they’re not red like roses usually are—but they’re definitely some sort of flower. On Richie’s bedside table are a few mostly-wilted daisies that look like they were ripped from someone’s planter and plopped unceremoniously in a cup from his kitchen. Maybe that poor planter is where Richie got the purple flower petals lining his floor from, too. The room is unnaturally warm due to all the candles and Eddie immediately shrugs off his backpack and jacket, already beginning to sweat.

And there, in the middle of it all, laying at a weird angle on his bed in a deep sleep, his new glasses sliding down his face crookedly and snoring softly, is Richie.

Eddie sighs and shakes his head fondly. He slips his shoes off and places his things down on the floor, careful to avoid the several candles on the carpet nearby. He walks over to the bed, following the flower trail so he doesn’t knock over any candles. He sits down on the edge of the bed gingerly and watches Richie for a little while. He has no idea what’s going on, but whatever it is is making his heart race and his fingers shake. He places a hand on Richie’s shoulder, the one still in the sling, and rubs his arm up and down it slowly, hoping to ease Richie into a waking state. It doesn’t work. Richie sniffs sharply and jolts up, knocking Eddie’s hand off his arm without realizing it.

“‘M awake,” he says, more nervous than groggy. “Wha’ time zit?”

“7:30 I think? A couple more minutes and you would’ve probably burned your whole house down,” Eddie chuckles. “Why the fuck are there so many damn candles?”

“R’mance,” Richie explains, voice muffled by the pillow as he drops his head back down. Eddie’s heart stops. “Shit, this was s’pposed to be _r’mantic_ and I cocked it up by fallin’ ‘sleep. Ugh.” Eddie’s eyes widen. _Romance._

“Why did you need romance, Richie?” Eddie whispers.

“Valentine’s,” is all Richie says in response. He doesn’t even open his eyes. Eddie stares, caught between exhilarated and terrified.

“I didn’t even know that was today,” Eddie marvels quietly without taking his eyes off Richie. He realizes then that Richie is wearing a fucking _suit jacket._ It’s only half-on, as he was seemingly unable to get his broken arm into it. It’s huge on him, probably his father’s, and Eddie suddenly understands the knowing smile Wentworth gave him when he let him into the house. Okay, he only sort-of-understands. Because none of this really makes any sense at all. He’s afraid to jinx it by saying anything about it though, so he chooses to stare at Richie incredulously instead.

Slowly, Richie reaches his good arm above his head and stretches, joints popping loudly in the quiet room. The blazer falls to the side with the movement to reveal one of his nicer button-downs, the one with the pink and orange flowers that Eddie told him he liked at the Homecoming Dance this year, and a tie. It’s poorly knotted and way too tight at the base of his neck to the point where Eddie thinks he gave up and just laced it like he would a shoelace. It’s not even underneath the collar, sticking out and looking so deeply fucking stupid.

Eddie is smitten. Eddie is charmed. Eddie is _in love._

Richie frowns when he drops his arm back down and begins poking at the tie, trying to loosen it to give himself more air. It’s pulling at the skin of his neck, so Eddie bats his hands away gently, undoing it himself to retie it. He flips Richie’s collar up and deftly creates a Windsor knot, leaving it loose and popping the top button of the shirt so it isn’t constricting his airway too much. When Eddie finishes, he looks back up at Richie’s face to find that he’s been watching Eddie curiously.

“Didn’t know you could tie a tie,” Richie says. Eddie shrugs.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“Like what?” Richie smiles lazily, head lolling back slightly on the pillows so his neck is exposed. Eddie remembers sucking on his pulse point four months ago. He remembers biting down on a bruise he created and hearing Richie moan, hips stuttering forward. He remembers all the time, not just right now. He remembers in the dark with his door locked and the blinds closed, his blood pumping wildly. He remembers practically nightly. He wants to do it again, but he isn’t sure he’s brave enough without the confidence the alcohol gave him running through his veins. Instead, he just stares, eyes burning intensely as they rake over Richie’s body. He hopes they leave a mark.

“I wanted a pet turtle really bad when I was little, but my mom wouldn’t let me have one.”

“I actually knew that one,” Richie smiles affectionately. “You had a lot of turtle-printed shirts and were really into the Ninja Turtles for a while. I remember you did a report in the sixth grade about turtles’ shells. Like, about their growth and stuff.” Eddie rolls his eyes with a huff.

“Of course you remember that. I should have you know I got an A on that report.”

Richie stares for a while, just looking to look, and it makes Eddie a bit self-conscious. He shifts, glancing away from the fading bruises on Richie’s face until he speaks again. “Tell me another.” His voice is barely above a whisper. It sets Eddie’s skin ablaze. He aches to touch him.

“I want to be a mechanic,” Eddie responds softly. “Or maybe a counselor, if I ever fix myself. Someone who helps people.”

“You’d be good at both,” Richie says, voice slow like dripping honey and more certain than Eddie’s ever been in his life before this moment. “And you don’t need fixing. You’re perfect.” Eddie has never known what to say or what to think or what to feel. But right now, he knows all of these with resounding clarity. He wants to say that he likes Richie, out loud, where he can hear him. He thinks about Richie’s lips finally pressing against his own. He feels like everything they’ve been through in their lives—meeting in kindergarten, the clown, the accident—has led to this burning moment, this burning room, their burning eyes.

“Do you want to hear another?” Eddie asks, and Richie nods slowly, refusing to break eye contact.

“Very much so.”

“I want to kiss you.” And there it is. The truth, said plainly and unmistakably. Eddie’s never been a big fan of the truth. But the way Richie’s entire expression changes into something Eddie can only describe as _light_ when he hears it makes Eddie wish he could be truthful more often.

“Then you should,” Richie says, eyes crinkled at the corners from the force of his toothy grin. Eddie reaches up to smooth his thumb over the lines there and then drags it down to cup Richie’s cheek gently, fitting his thumb into Richie’s dimple. Eddie’s always loved that dimple. He leans down slowly, hand shifting to the back of his neck, and watches Richie carefully. Neither of them close their eyes, though Eddie thinks maybe they should. People usually do that in the movies.

He uses both hands to remove Richie’s glasses and sets them on the bedside table without breaking eye contact. Richie’s breath hitches, and Eddie can hear it, so close their breathing mingles. Eddie slips his hand behind Richie’s neck and kneads softly at the tense muscles, still staring. He leans down and presses his lips to Richie’s dimple, nearly faded at this point. It’s returns full-force when Eddie leans back slightly, his mouth pulled into a pleased smile. Eddie uses his other hand to cup Richie’s cheek. His thumb grazes against Richie’s mouth. The smile fades with shock and Eddie pulls down on Richie’s now-relaxed bottom lip.

“Eddie,” Richie whispers. It twists Eddie’s stomach into knots and sets fire to his insides. He’s still blazing when Richie continues. “Kiss me.” It comes out a suggestion more than a demand, but Eddie almost wishes Richie would tell him what to do because at this point, he thinks he's too damn scared to move on his own.

Eddie nods. “O-Okay.” His hands begin shaking violently where they’re touching Richie’s skin, even as he leans in closer. The sides of their noses touch. So close. Richie reaches up with his good hand to tenderly cover Eddie’s where it’s resting on his cheek, and it immediately stops shaking. So close. Richie takes a stuttering gasp of breath as their lips graze, and this more than anything else, even more than Richie’s words, is what gives Eddie the confidence to do what he does, even before Richie speaks.

“Please, Eddie,” Richie begs, voice merely a wrecked breath, and he sounds so desperate for Eddie’s touch that he has to wonder if Richie has been locking his door at night, too.

Ever since Eddie can remember, he’s been lying. He has lived by lies and knows he will die by lies, too. But in the meantime, there’s a whole lot of in between, and he thinks that there’s no sense in filling it up if he’s not getting something out of it. So he kisses Richie, because he sees no point in living between the lies if he isn’t enjoying it.

Eddie kisses Richie’s top lip gently. Once. Twice. Their lips glide together, and the taste of Eddie’s pomegranate chapstick mixes with the cherry of Richie’s that he must’ve applied before he fell asleep. Nothing has ever been so sweet. Nothing ever will be again. Eddie knows inarguably that they’ve broken the mould with this kiss. Richie lets out a sigh of relief, going boneless with it and letting his muscles relax as he melts into the bed, and suddenly, too close is not nearly close enough.

“Ow, fuck,” Richie hisses, wincing into the kiss when Eddie tries to push further. Eddie immediately pulls away, taking his hands from Richie’s skin and putting them up beside his head in a show of surrender. “No, no!” Richie whines, grabbing for him again, but when he leans up, he jolts in pain. “Fuck!” He sits up and slaps his hand where his back just was. He pulls a cassette tape out from under himself and stares at it incredulously as he flops back onto the bed. “Of course my own attempt at romance would cock-block me.”

“What are you talking about?” Eddie asks, reaching for the tape, but Richie holds it out of reach.

“No way. I already got you, I don’t need to embarrass myself further.”

“Fuck that, you haven’t got shit! Give it to me!” Eddie cries, leaning over him to snatch it from Richie’s hand. Richie groans as soon as it’s taken from him and reaches for a pillow to cover his bright red face. Eddie smiles at the tape, quirking his head in confusion. _“Richie Tozier’s Swingin’ Seduction Songz?”_ Eddie reads.

“Ugh,” Richie groans from behind the pillow. “Shut up.”

“What the hell is even on this?” Eddie asks, voice dripping with affection.

“Nothing. It’s blank. Empty. Like my heart when I think about you,” Richie responds flatly, voice incredibly muffled by the pillow he’s pressed harder into his face.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure.” Eddie opens the tape cover and Richie must hear the squeak because he whines in protest.

 _“Stoooop,”_ he cries, drawing out the word for so long that Eddie has to roll his eyes. He grins at the tracklist.

“Wow, Rich. I had no idea you felt so _strongly,”_ he teases, so damn smug about all of this.

“Fuck off, of course you did!” Richie cries, hitting him with the pillow that he was using to hide under. “Everyone does. I’m about as subtle as your mom when it’s her time of the month. She’s always so horny, just like you. Now you _have_ to call me daddy.”

Eddie ignores him to get up off the bed and go to Richie’s stereo. He releases the spring of the tape deck and pulls out the mix already loaded in there, something called _RIOT GRRRL_ written in Beverly’s bold handwriting with her favorite purple pen. He slips his own tape in despite Richie’s pleas to do otherwise coming from behind him, and presses PLAY.

A music box melody comes through the speakers and makes Eddie smile. When it cuts off with a single snare drum hit, Eddie whips around to grin at Richie. _“Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older? Then we wouldn’t have to wait so long!”_ Eddie sings through his laughter as he shimmies closer to the bed and Richie’s embarrassed groans intensify. _“And wouldn’t it be nice to live together in the kind of world where we belong?”_

Eddie cuts himself off with a loud laugh as he jumps onto the bed, knees on either side of Richie’s hips and hands braced beside his head. He isn’t touching Richie at all, but he leans in closer with the force of his giggles. “C’mon, Rich, sing! It’s _your_ tape after all.”

“I regret liking you. God, this is so fucking incriminating,” Richie grumbles, but he’s smiling slyly, eyeing Eddie sideways as he presses his burning cheek into the pillow underneath him. His head shoots up out of his hiding place as he sings along with Eddie, making his Voice exaggerated and far more nasally than it usually is.

 _“And after having spent the day together, hold each other close the whole night through!”_ Eddie tries to sing with him, but his laughter has turned maniacal as his elbows buckle. The song gets a bit softer and so does Richie’s voice, so Eddie forces himself to stop laughing so he can listen. He opens his eyes to find Richie smiling so sweetly at him. Eddie can’t help but lean in closely to the point where Richie is singing into Eddie’s mouth. Too close is still not close enough. _“Happy times together we’d be spending. I wish that every kiss was never-ending—”_

Eddie cuts him off with a bruising kiss, more passion than heat. They’re both smiling into it, and Richie’s hand skims up Eddie’s back to sink his fingers into his hair and card through it. Eddie collapses slightly, bracing himself on his forearms, and the added stability gives him the ability to cup Richie’s cheek once again. His thumb dips into the prominent dimple in his skin from the force of his smile which just makes it grow more pronounced. Eddie’s never kissed anybody before, never really even wanted to, so he’s sure his movements are clumsy with inexperience, but Richie doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps slowing things down, trying to coax Eddie into relaxing into it. Eddie has never been a relaxed person, and his mind is going a mile a minute, worrying about everything he can; Richie’s parents coming in, his curfew, if they’re going to tell their friends, what Richie could possibly be thinking right now, how shitty he must be at this. But then Richie licks into his mouth and twists their fingers together with his unbandaged hand, and Eddie’s anxieties fly out the window. Richie Tozier is his best friend. He doesn’t need to worry. They’ll figure all this shit out together.

They’re entirely lost to each other for a long time as they kiss. It’s nothing like Halloween, and it’s somehow so much better. No wandering hands, no rolling hips, nothing but _feeling,_ so much so that Eddie barely even notices when _Your Love_ by Outfield finishes and changes over into something with a heavier downbeat and more soul. Richie, however, does notice, and he cackles loudly into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie rears back, annoyed.

“What?”

“I forgot I put this on here s’all.”

“What is it?” Richie smirks mischievously.

 _“In the Closet_ by Michael Jackson.” Eddie’s eyes widen and he shrieks indignantly, grabbing the pillow Richie had been using to cover his face and whack him upside the head with it.

“You little shit!” Eddie cries, smiling despite his annoyance as Richie tries to deflect him and laughs loudly. “You think you’re so fucking smart!”

“I do, actually,” he grins proudly. They laugh together as Eddie flips over onto his side and collapses onto the bed, stuffing the pillow under his head so he can look at Richie. He looks past him and spots the dead flowers on the nightstand and gives them a half-smile. He watches as Richie flips gingerly to face Eddie, cradling his broken arm against his chest.

“Why’d you pick the garbage flowers?” Eddie asks. Richie shrugs.

“Why’d I do any of this? It’s what you do when you like someone, I guess. You give them stolen flowers and light a trillion candles and clean your room as best you can with a broken arm and a busted knee.” Eddie’s smile intensifies. He remembers hoping Richie would give him flowers someday, and Eddie can’t believe he actually has.

“But you already made me the mixtape,” he points out.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t entirely sure you’d get the message,” Richie admits quietly, cheeks burning once again as he averts his gaze from Eddie’s.

“What, _In the Closet_ wasn’t obvious enough?” Eddie grins.

“Hey! This song is surprisingly romantic, don’t knock it.” Eddie scoffs.

“Oh, I’m sure it is.”

“Listen!” Richie cries, pointing to the boombox. _Because there’s something about you, baby, that makes me want to give it to you_ fills the room, and Eddie snorts loudly. It’s what the Losers call his Richie Laugh because it’s what happens when he’s trying to stifling his laughter and failing miserably, which only ever happens with Richie because when given an inch, Richie takes a mile, so whenever Eddie laughs at his jokes (which is almost always), he takes that as a sign to go bigger and bolder which usually just makes Eddie laugh harder. It’s an endless, vicious cycle that Eddie likes to end before it even begins.

“What is ‘it’?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Richie smirks, leaning in so close to Eddie that both of their eyes cross.

“Shut up,” Eddie sighs fondly, grabbing Richie by the tie and hauling him bodily across the small space between them to press their lips together once again because he can _do that now._  He can shut Richie up with a kiss, which is something he’s been fantasizing about for years. But it isn’t rough or frustrated or _red_ like Eddie always imagined their first kisses would be. Their lips glide gingerly because Eddie doesn’t want to hurt him. It’s careful. It’s tender. It’s the perfect amalgamation of everything they’ve been building towards—less of an explosion and more like easing into the water at the Kenduskeag slowly so that there’s less of a shock of the cold water against his skin. It’s a change in their relationship certainly, but not one that feels foreign or strange. It feels as if they’ve been this way since the day they met, like they’ve been kissing and touching and _feeling_ for far longer than just tonight. Eddie never thought they could be gentle with each other before now though, and maybe that’s the only real difference: Eddie’s way of viewing them changes much more than what they actually are does.

Maybe they have been _feeling_ for much longer than just the last few months. Maybe the _purple_ from the flowers on the floor and the _purple_  from the bruises still littering Richie’s skin from the accident are something they should’ve seen coming. Eddie sighs contentedly into Richie’s mouth and it fans over their cheeks. Eddie pulls back just enough so that their lips are barely touching anymore and he opens his eyes to find Richie’s dazed expression.

“Can’t believe my fuckin’ luck,” Richie whispers, a small, shocked smile on his face.

“Why now?” Eddie asks. He feels Richie’s smile more than he sees it and Richie cups the back of Eddie’s neck with such care and affection that he feels dizzy from the sudden rush of emotion.

“Because you don’t get the chance to be with the one you really want every day,” he explains quietly as the last song on the tape plays with the same music box sweetness as the first track. _Dela_ he remembers from the index card tucked into the tape cover. He listens as he tucks a stray curl out of Richie’s eyes. _I’ve been waiting for you day and night; I burn for you._ “I had plans to take you out today for a while, but the stupid accident dashed those. I had this whole thing planned, I even went to Bangor to get you that special VHS copy of Ghostbusters with commentary like you’ve been begging for for months, but it got wrecked in the accident. Was gonna make a whole day of it, woo you properly with popcorn and a movie marathon and cuddling and shit. And then, like, I almost died, and I realized, like, what the fuck am I waiting for, you know? I kept waiting for this perfect moment, kept putting it off until tomorrow, next week, because I thought that’s what you deserve, some magic moment. And it is. But life isn’t a fucking John Hughes movie, you know, and when you realize you want to be with someone right now, like, right this very second, you want today to start as soon as possible. You don’t let bumps in the road throw you off course. Even _literal_ bumps in the road.”

He winks clumsily, and Eddie smiles. _Thank you,_  he tells whoever was listening in the chapel. _I won’t let you down._  “Is today the day? Is this the moment?”

Richie nods, matching Eddie’s smile with the same intensity. _Burn for you, I burn for you._ “Sure is, Eds.”


	10. April, 1993

_Running is something that we’ve always done well_  
_And mostly I can’t even tell what I’m running from_  
_Run from their pity, from responsibility_  
_I can run from the law, I can run from myself_  
_I can run from it all, I can run ‘til I’m gone_  
_I can run using every last ounce of energy_  
_I cannot, I cannot, I cannot run from my family_

—Runs in the Family, Amanda Palmer

 

The scene is annoying at _best._

Ever since Richie got his cast off a week ago, he’s been begging everyone he can get his hands on to _do something._ Usually, Eddie is the first to deny these requests. There was always something about the way they interacted when they were alone that made Eddie want to run—he knows why now. He was never running from Richie, but rather how Richie made him feel: alive, terrified, only a rapidly beating heart left to him, expanding and overtaking every inch of him.

Now, though. Now, he knows he never wanted to run _from_ Richie, but rather _with_ him. Of course, now that he's realized this, it still doesn't stop him from doing both.

But when Richie straight up _begged_ Eddie, Beverly and Ben a few days prior to do something, _anything_ with him, none of them had the heart to say no.

The picnic was Ben’s idea. He said he didn’t want to rot inside and watch Richie play video games at the arcade, but Beverly promised that if they go to the Barrens as they usually default to, Richie is certain to break his arm again with how stir-crazy he’s been acting. Picnic in Bill’s backyard seemed like the safest option.

Eddie, however, is learning that Richie Tozier can make any situation a dangerous one.

It starts when Eddie hears the bell from Richie’s bike trilling from outside his bedroom window. Eddie had made Richie promise to not be too extravagant when he picked him up so as not to worry his mother, but of course, the asshole had to go and start hollering on the Kaspbrak’s front lawn.

“Hey, asshole!” Richie screams, still ringing his bell over and over again. “You ready or what?”

“Jesus, Richie…” Eddie curses quietly from inside his bedroom, shaking his head as he moves quickly through the house. His mother catches up with him as he’s slipping his light jacket on at the front door.

“And just where do you think you’re going, Eddie?”

“Out,” Eddie says curtly. “I’ll be back before dark.”

“Edward, you’re not going anywhere with that raging _lunatic_ outside.” She looks out the screen door and they both spot Richie waving extravagantly from the sidewalk. _At least he got off the grass,_ Eddie thinks. _Ma would’ve had a cow if she saw him marking up the lawn._

“He’s not a lunatic, ma,” Eddie sighs wearily. “He’s my best friend.”

“He’s a bad influence on you. Before him, you were never this insolent.”

“Ma, I’ve been friends with Richie longer than dad’s been dead.” Sonia gasps, affronted at Eddie’s careless use of language, but he honestly doesn’t care that she’s offended. Eddie knows he loves and respects his father’s memory, and that’s enough for him. He doesn’t have to prove anything to his mother. He’s so tired of pretending around her.

“Edward, do you even miss your father?” she asks, voice wobbling along with her lower lip. _Jesus, here come the crocodile tears._ A few years ago, this act had Eddie hook, line and sinker. But he’s older now, a little more emboldened by the distance between him and his mom ever since that summer.

“Of course I do. Now, I’m going to go. I said I’d be back before dark, and I meant it. Are you going to let me go?”

“Eddie Bear,” his mother sighs, and Eddie nearly flinches from the use of the name that always comes with some sort of manipulation, “these _friends_ of yours have turned you into someone you’re not. Ever since those _hooligans_ you call friends broke your arm twice in one summer, I just can’t trust your decision-making anymore.”

“Funny,” Eddie says, a careless, unamused half-smile on his face, “I could say the same about you.”

Without even leaning down to tie his shoes, he whips open the screen door and trots down the few steps it takes to hit the ground. He can hear his mother sobbing loudly, even as the screen door slams shut behind him, but he pays her no mind. He knows she’s only trying to get a rise out of him to make him turn back, and Eddie has always been bad with giving people what they want, so he keeps jogging towards Richie purposefully. He _wants_ to have something resembling a healthy relationship with his mother. Of course he does—she’s his mother after all, and he still loves her despite everything—but he knows their relationship will always be strained until she admits to what she’s done to him over the years.

“Hey, Mrs. K!” Richie calls out with a grin as soon as Eddie comes out. “I must say, you’re looking absolutely _ravishing_ today! Those curlers are really workin’ for me!”

“Shut the fuck up, douchebag,” Eddie hisses, unsure if Richie can even hear him from where he’s perched on the sidewalk. Richie, still mounted on his bike, drops the act and sighs harshly as soon as Eddie is within earshot.

“Jesus, that took for-fucking-ever.” Eddie just rolls his eyes as Richie pats the large, cushy seat of the bike his mother got him for his 14th birthday. “C’mon up, shortstack. The water’s fine, and your darling mother has already made us late for this shindig.”

“God, you’re insufferable,” Eddie groans, but he hooks his leg over the bike anyway. Eddie waits for Richie to take off, but when he just sits there, Eddie makes a frustrated noise. “Richie, c’mon, you were the one who said we’re gonna be late.”

“We’re already late, and you gotta wrap your arms around my waist, Eds,” Richie says, a lilting fondness to his voice that makes Eddie narrow his eyes at the back of his head. “Safety first and all that jazz.”

“Jesus…” Eddie flicks Richie hard in the back of the head and does as he’s told while Richie’s cringing.

“You little gremlin,” Richie mutters, flipping up the kickstand expertly with one foot and pushing off down the sidewalk. Eddie purposefully doesn’t look back to see if his mother has watched this exchange—it’d be useless anyway, he knows she has.

The first few minutes of the ride is mostly quiet, only interrupted by Richie pointing out the blooming flowers here and there when they pass by various front yard gardens. Eddie even feels calm enough to rest his cheek against Richie’s back. However, all this is ruined when Richie finds himself bored and wanting to show off about a quarter of a mile from Bill’s house.

It starts by Richie standing as he pedals down a hill and nearly pitching Eddie off the bike. “God, Rich! You wanna kill us both?”

“Sorry, darlin’,” Richie laughs, sitting back down, but as soon as he does, he puts his feet up on the handlebars.

“Richie!”

“What, you’re not impressed?”

“No! Cut it the fuck out!” Eddie tightens his hold on Richie’s waist as they pick up speed and then level out with the ground. He can physically feel Richie roll his eyes as he unhooks his ankles from the handlebars and puts his feet back on the pedals.

“You’re no fun. You’re literally the opposite of fun.”

“Yeah, and we’re the opposite of dead, no thanks to you. You’re fucking welcome.” Richie just laughs, which infuriates Eddie further. “What?!”

“We were not going to die on my bike going 20 miles per hour.”

“I don’t get how you’re not…” Eddie sighs, letting his cheek rest against Richie’s back once again. He’s glad they don’t have to look at each other right now. He doesn’t think he’d be able to say what he needs to if they were. “You almost fucking died, Rich. I was going out of my mind in that hospital only a few months ago. It might not’ve been a lot for you, and maybe it shouldn’t have been a lot for me… what, with fighting a demon clown from space and all… but still. It was still really fucking scary, alright? You can’t just expect me to be cool with you casually throwing your life around like it doesn’t mean anything when _does._ It means fucking everything. I mean… At least to me…”

Eddie hasn’t even noticed that they’ve slowed to a stop in front of the Denbrough house, still clutching on tightly to the light sweater Richie’s wearing underneath his jacket. The only reason their stasis is brought to his attention is because Richie slowly rubs his palms over top of Eddie’s hands and helps him unstitch himself from the fabric of the cotton sweater. Eddie presses his face harder into the canvas of Richie’s jacket, afraid to make eye contact after that speech. Luckily, Richie doesn’t force him to, just simply says, “I’m sorry,” before bringing their entwined hands up and kissing Eddie’s fingers. Eddie relaxes against Richie and nods.

“S’okay.”

Richie waits for Eddie to take a deep, steadying breath before letting go of him and beginning to untangle himself ungracefully from the bike. Eddie snorts and follows suit and walks beside Richie as he dumps his bike in the pile their friends had made of their own. Even Mike’s—Richie had demanded everyone ride their bikes to Bill’s despite Mike having free use of his family’s farm truck for what Richie called ‘the full experience.’ They hear their friends already laughing out back, and Richie takes off running towards them, going around the side of the house. Eddie sighs harshly, leans down to quickly tie his shoes, and jogs after him. Suddenly, Richie whips around, and his grin is too wide for the words he shouts at Eddie.

“I know how you feel, you know! Had to watch the love of _my_ life almost die, too!” Eddie frowns and tries to speed up to catch him, but Richie is already cackling and sprinting away.

“You’re _not_ the love of my life!” Eddie cries, cheeks burning and chest heaving from way more than just the running they’re doing. When he makes it to the backyard, Richie has already tackled Beverly into the grass and he can hear their loud laughter crystal clear despite the few yards distance between them. Eddie smiles fondly and shakes his head before slowing to a walk.

“Hey, Eds!” Bill calls out. “You’re just in t-t-time!”

“For what?”

“Yeah, Bill, we were just, like, shootin’ the shit,” Beverly snorts. “Eddie wasn’t missin’ much.”

“Okay, well, _I_ m-missed him. So.” Eddie’s cheeks burn as he ducks his head down and smiles at the ground.

“Missed you, too, Bill.” Eddie looks up to find all his friends looking at him with matching helplessly fond grins, even Richie. He thought that maybe his relationships with the others would have to change now that he and Richie are Something Different—less flirting on all sides, maybe—but then he realizes that this _isn’t_ flirting. Not every relationship is the same, and a compliment from Bill is weighted with a much different meaning than a compliment from Richie. Beverly compliments him all the time—honestly, almost every day—but it never makes him shy. He takes Beverly’s compliments with ease in a way he can’t with anyone else, so she gives them out to him for free. That’s just how Beverly is: she likes to make her friends smile. Bill is different; he compliments Eddie with the fondness of a father. It always makes him feel warm, and he’s glad that his shifting relationship status with Richie doesn’t mean losing that so long as Bill doesn’t find out anything has changed.

Eddie is shocked at how natural the transition from Best Friends to Different has been with Richie. It’s seamless. They still rag on each other and wrestle constantly, but now those insults come with sweet smiles that neither try to stifle anymore, and wrestling matches usually end with one of them on their backs, making out intensely before Eddie rolls away and distracts Richie with something else due to the embarrassment of being so turned on by a _boy._ Eddie doesn’t want to be a prude. He really wants to do everything he can with Richie, including the sexual stuff. He is a sixteen year old boy after all—he's got the same urges that he knows Richie does. But there’s a voice in the back of his head screaming _dirty! wrong!_  at him whenever he tries. Catholic guilt’s a _bitch._ Plus, they’ve only been whatever they are now for a few months; he doesn’t really think he’d be ready for that even if he didn’t have bible verses breathing down his neck.

“Uh. Eddie?” Eddie looks up from where Bill is helping him make a plate of food to Mike who is pointing at the trampoline with a wary expression. He finds Beverly and Richie jumping on it, and he doesn’t want to be a mother hen about Richie’s injuries. He wants Richie to be himself, and his ability to have fun in any situation is the thing Eddie likes most about him. But when he tunes in and hears Richie trying to convince Beverly to have what he calls a ‘trampoline battle,’ Eddie feels he has to step in. It’s not because they’re dating. It’s _not._  Richie isn’t anything special. He would do the same for any of the rest of his injured friends, and you can quote him on that.

“What the fuck are you doing, Trashmouth?” Eddie calls from his place on the picnic blanket a few yards away. Richie whips his head to Eddie with a toothy grin.

“Trampoline battle!”

“What the fuck is a trampoline battle?” Eddie sighs.

“Something I am not helping you kill yourself with, that’s for sure,” Beverly says, already climbing off the trampoline.

“Nooo!” Richie whines, jumping off so dangerously it makes Eddie’s blood pressure spike. He grits his teeth. _Not his babysitter, not his babysitter,_ Eddie repeats to himself. “I just wanna see if we can make it from the trampoline to the pool!”

“Okay, one, the pool isn’t even o-op-open,” Bill says, counting off on his fingers, “and two, you can’t. You’ll die.”

“O ye of little faith,” Richie says in a weird, faux-sage Voice. He plops down beside Eddie and immediately takes a chip off his plate, which makes Eddie smack his wrist.

And perhaps if Richie were undeniably _Eddie’s,_ he'd be able to pull Richie closer and apologize when he shrinks and flinches away. But Eddie flinches, too, and as it is, neither of them have the right to be tugging at each other’s strings to gain attention, or affection, or anything other than friendship. It makes his heart ache that they have to hide so much, that Eddie feels he has to hide his affection for Richie and his apologies to him from plain sight. What they have now, at least to the naked eye, is a relationship drenched in friendship that sings to the tune of romance. That’s all they are, all they’ve ever been, and all they’ll ever be.

At least, until they tell anyone else. Nothing is real until somebody else knows it.

But the thing is, he doesn’t know what to even tell them. That he and Richie make out now? That he took Richie on a real, bonafide date to sneak into the Aladdin’s throwback showing of When a Stranger Calls a few weeks ago—had picked him up from his house with a rose and a clean, pressed shirt and everything? No. That shit’s not only embarrassing as hell, but he has no idea how anyone will react except Beverly. None of them have ever been outwardly homophobic, but in this town, it’s better to assume the worst of everyone, including the people he thinks he knows best. His mother’s lies are still rolling around in his head, telling him trust in anyone but her is a sign of weakness, and the bruises Henry Bowers slugged into his stomach while spitting _queerboy_ still feel fresh even though it’s been years already since any of them have seen him.

“I promise,” Eddie warns lowly, leaning in closer to Richie, enough so only he can hear but not enough so Richie will lean away instinctively, “if you die, I _will_ break up with you.”

Richie turns to him, eyes joyfully lit up. “I didn’t know we had something to break.” Eddie just shrugs. “Ooh, delightful.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie mutters.

“Hey, you hear that everyone?” Richie says, getting everyone’s attention. Eddie’s eyes widen and he feels warm all over, his whole body singing with nerves. “Eddie and I have something to break!”

A deafening silence as Eddie drops his head into his hands. “Christ. Discretion, you moron.”

“What? Was that not the right thing to say?” Richie asks, sounding a bit more anxious than before.

“It’ll be fine once you explain yourself,” Stanley says.

“Oh. Uh, I just mean that…” Eddie looks up to find Richie staring at him wide-eyed. _I’m sorry,_ he mouths, and Eddie heaves out a world-weary sigh. He should’ve known this would happen if he didn’t tell Richie explicitly not to tell anyone; the boy can’t keep anything to himself for too long.

“Richie and I are together.” A quick beat, and then several _oh’s._

“Wait, romantically?" Mike asks, brows knit together in confusion. Eddie nods. "You mean you weren’t before?”

“Uh. Not really.” Mike nods, shooting them both a warm smile. “I mean, it’s been a couple months, but—”

“A couple _months?!”_ Beverly demands, slapping Ben’s arm without looking away. “You’ve been dating a couple of _months_ and you didn’t _tell us?!”_

“Uh. No. We didn’t know how you’d all, uh…” Eddie looks to Richie for him to finish his sentence.

“We didn’t know you’d be punching Ben’s lights out about it.” Beverly retracts her hands sheepishly as Richie continues. “We thought maybe _we’d_ end up with our lights punched out.”

Another silence, but this one lasts much longer than the last. Eddie looks away as it stretches on, and Stanley is the one to break it, voice hushed and a bit sad.

“You thought we’d… we’d _hurt_ you because you’re gay?”

Eddie just shrugs, and Richie says, “T’is the way it be in our day and age, good fellow.”

“We don’t care,” Stanley says definitively, no room for arguement. “We love you. Period, end of discussion.” Eddie looks up to the rest of his friends’ faces to see if they agree with him.

“I love love,” Ben explains, smiling a bit. His expression is caught between forlorn and happy. “I don’t care who’s giving it to you guys so long as you have it at all.” Eddie smiles back and finds the rest of them nodding in agreement. All but Bill. Eddie zeroes in on him, heart pounding, and Bill looks torn, knowing he’s been caught.

“It’s just, uh…” Bill looks away, frowning. He chooses is next words carefully, in a different way than he usually does. “I didn’t… kn-kn-know.”

“I mean, yeah. That’s why we’re telling you all,” Richie says.

“No. I mean… My dad would f-f-f-freak out.”

“I mean, yeah. That’s why you’re not telling anybody,” Richie repeats, eyebrows quirked inward. “Thought that was obvious.”

“I mean, my dad would freak out, too. But we’re not our parents,” Stanley says, drawing the words out slowly as if talking to a child. Bill just shrugs, looking down to start picking at blades of grass and avoid eye contact. “Bill, if you have a problem wi—”

 _“No!”_ Bill shouts, head shooting up. He sounds louder than they remember him being since the sewers. “I just… It’s fine, really, h-honestly. It’s alright. I just don’t really want anything to ch-change, you know?” Eddie nods slowly.

“It won’t. We promise,” Eddie says, and Richie nods violently in agreement.

“Yeah,” Richie says, “you’re still our weird, defacto-slash-second dad.”

Bill snorts and nods. “Okay. I-I’ll get u-u-used to it.”

“Really?” Eddie frowns dubiously. Bill nods, smiling slightly.

“Really. It’s just a lot to take in.” Eddie nods and reaches over to pat his knee. All he’s ever wanted in life is Bill Denbrough’s approval. He knows he’d go to the ends of the earth to get it—maybe even give up the happiness he feels with Richie to get it. He knows that’s unhealthy, he knows his friendship with Bill borders on worship, but he also knows that Richie feels the same, so it doesn’t scare him as much as he thinks it probably should. So when Bill doesn’t pull away, he finally lets himself relax in a way he doesn’t think he’s been able to since realizing his sexuality.

“We get it. It’s cool,” Eddie smiles.

 _“So,”_ Beverly stresses, looking away from Bill and replacing her frustrated look with a more conspiratory one, “how’d it go down?” And suddenly, Richie and Eddie are talking over each other in an explosion of noise that breaks the remaining tension entirely.

“He almost burned down his house—”

“Okay, he’s being dramatic. I _wooed_ him—”

“In your dreams! I took pity on you!”

“Oh, yeah, that’s definitely what you were saying last night on your back.” Eddie shrieks and throws a potato chip at him, which prompts Richie to throw an entire slice of salami in retaliation. It sticks to Eddie’s cheek and his mouth drops open in shock. He immediately grabs his cup of water and dumps it over Richie’s head before he can ever lean away. Richie grins at him, sopping wet and entirely pleased.

“Food fight!” he calls out, and then everyone else joins in. Eddie starts screaming, hiding behind Beverly and using her as a human shield. He’s scolding everyone about wasting food and dirtying it all up and rendering it inedible, but he’s really only playing up his hypochondria for shits and giggles. He’s having a fucking blast watching his friends have fun.

Richie turns to Beverly and Eddie and raises an eyebrow, aiming a grape at their heads and missing spectacularly. “Should I be worried my woman is stealing my man?”

“He’s all yours, Trashmouth!” Beverly laughs, shoving Eddie bodily over to Richie. Eddie immediately drapes himself over Richie’s back to avoid getting pelted by food, and Richie grabs the backs of his thighs and stands up with him before Eddie can protest. Richie starts braying loudly as he gallops around the yard with Eddie in tow to avoid the fight that’s still going on, and Eddie laughs loudly, clutching onto Richie’s soft, cream-colored sweater.

Everything feel familial and comfortable in the way he always thought familial and comfortable should feel, so Eddie hooks his chin over Richie’s shoulder and giggles into his ear, “You know, I used to do this all the time with my dad.”

“This?” Richie asks, hiking Eddie up higher on his back. Eddie nods. “Oh, yeah? That’s cute, Eds,” Richie hums, still running in circles like a maniac due to the fact that Stanley and Beverly are now aiming all their assaults at the two of them. A beat passes before he continues. “You can call me daddy if you want.”

“Stop it with that!” Eddie cries, slapping his chest with one hand before grabbing back onto his shirt for increased balance. “I’m not gonna call you daddy!”

“Sure you won’t, baby boy,” Richie says easily, laughing as he runs right through the middle of the group and the mess of food. Eddie rolls his eyes, blushing fiercely, but he holds on just as tightly as before, unafraid now in the face of his friends’ acceptance.

For as long as he can remember, Eddie has been monitoring his movements around Richie. There have been times where he’s been unable to, like right after the summer of ‘89, or when Richie got in the accident. In times of trouble, Eddie reaches for Richie and always finds him reaching back. He is monitoring his touches now, too, but in a different manner. He’s purposely touching Richie to let him and everyone else in their group know that he’s entirely unafraid. For once in his life, he doesn’t feel fear. He’s not running from this. He’s not running from Richie.

He’s sure that once the sun sets and this day ends, he’ll go back to the same old thing: doling out his affection carefully, even to most of his friends that feel more like family than anything else. But right now, he’s giving into his constantly touch-starved state. He remembers Bill telling him that touch doesn’t always have to be violent or sexual, and when he fists his hands into Richie’s sweater and presses his lips against the side of his neck, the truth of that statement echoes inexhaustibly.

He’s always wanted to know what it felt like to touch and be touched without fear laced between fingers. And when Richie squeezes Eddie’s thighs affectionately where he’s still holding on, Eddie realizes that he knows now. He hopes he never forgets this feeling as long as he lives.


	11. June, 1993

_Shadows crawled across the living room’s length  
_ _I held onto you with a desperate strength  
_ _With everything, with everything in me  
_ _People say friends don’t destroy one another  
__What do they know about friends?_

—Game Shows Touch Our Lives, The Mountain Goats

 

A familiar scene. A very familiar scene. Eddie is in Richie's room with him, the afternoon sun streaming through the open blinds (opened by Eddie who insisted on letting the light in due to Richie's preference in keeping his room akin to a cave) is warm on their skin. It’s a Tuesday evening, and Eddie’s mother thinks he’s at Bill’s working on a project for History.

Eddie always tells her that he’s at Bill’s when he’s really at Richie’s for two reasons: she likes Bill the most out of his friends (though that isn’t saying much) and because he is the one out of all of them who looks the straightest. He’s been seen around town kissing Beverly’s cheek chastely and staring after her forlornly in the schoolyard. Bill and Beverly aren’t an item—never really were, just two friends brought together by shared trauma—but it sure as hell looks like they are sometimes, walking each other home everyday and kissing each other’s cheeks to say hello. Bill is protective over all of them, but none fiercer than Beverly after what he witnessed with her father in 1989, and their sweet behavior is just a result of that.

But Eddie’s mother was at the play in third grade as well—there’s no mistaking Bill Denbrough for anything other than heterosexual. This plagued Eddie for a few long, arduous months before his and Bill’s conversation about the nature of touch. Eddie had classified hero worship as attraction simply because he didn’t know any better.

He knows better now.

He’s wrapped around Richie’s body completely and unmistakably in the privacy of Richie’s bedroom. Eddie only touches Richie when they’re alone now that they’re dating to throw people off any trail that could possibly lead them to the truth. Richie, almost in retaliation, clings to him even more strongly than he did before. Richie was always touchy, even before they began dating, but now he’s pushing the envelope. His touches are calculated and controlled now more than ever, and perhaps the quantity of them hasn’t changed, but the locations of these touches have. The small of Eddie’s back when exiting a classroom. His head on Eddie’s shoulder at the movies. The back of his hand brushing against Eddie’s while they walk home from school. All of this makes Eddie’s nerves sing in more than one way.

But when they’re alone, Eddie allows himself to let his guard down. He forces himself to. All the years of practicing physical contact with Beverly could never have prepared him for how _good_ it feels to touch with affection and attraction laced in the spaces between fingers; fearless when alone. It’s as if there’s gold just beneath Eddie’s skin and Richie is a miner who only finds joy with a pickaxe in his hands and Eddie underneath him. Maybe with every rhythmic sweep of his thumb, every scratch of his nails, he’ll get closer to getting what he wants. Eddie has a wealth of gold to share with him, and allows Richie to take from him greedily because Eddie blooms underneath these touches; he gets so much out of it, too—maybe even more.

Whenever Eddie imagined himself touching and being touched when he was younger, he compulsively imagined a woman beside him out of the sheer comfortability of knowing that was expected of him. He never enjoyed these daydreams. He created a fantasy world as a kid—a world safe from harm buried deep in the caverns of his mind that could only be reached by him. In this world, there was no fear, no prejudice or hate. No evil. He had a partner in this world—sometimes a boyfriend, occasionally a husband, always an ally. The face of this boy changed with his mood. Sometimes it’d be Bill, sometimes it’d be River Phoenix, occasionally it’d be the boy in his Biology class from seventh grade with the shiny hair and the perfect teeth, most consistently it’d be Richie. On one occasion, he’d even found himself dreaming about Stanley.

But whenever he would dream about this world after the summer of 1989, he would find it destroyed by natural disaster or the massacre of his loved ones. He’s imagined and dreamt the scene of all of his friends’ bodies dead and mangled on the dirty floor of the house on Neibolt Street more times than he’ll ever admit out loud. His daydream boys, real and imaginary, all laid tortured and mangled beyond repair before him. Always his fault. Every time.

He doesn’t daydream very much anymore. He rarely ever dreams at all.

Even before that fateful summer, he still found the dream-world plagued with issues. He’d find problems with all potential partners, even the made-up ones. He’d still be unhappy in that life, couldn’t help but see the problems, because he knows he is always going to be unhappy. He believes he’s destined to be—that’s something he’s so absolutely certain of that he can’t even allow himself to chase daydreams.

But now he finds he doesn’t have to. The memories of It are all still fresh in his head, tender and unhealing wounds that sometimes fester with infection when prodded at too hard. But with Richie in his room, in his space, in his skin, he doesn’t ever think about that summer. He doesn't need to.

Before they dated, it was often all he thought about—Richie swinging a baseball bat at Pennywise’s head like he’d never lost a war, never felt fear before. Richie’s hands on his warm, wet cheeks, begging him to _look at him_  so that the last thing Eddie would see before death was his best friend. Bill instructing him to look at him earlier that day when he panicked about the missing poster calmed him immediately, and he wanted that same thing for Eddie in what they both believed were their final moments. Eddie learned that day that Richie Tozier would quite literally do anything for his friends, and he notices this trait more easily when it comes up now. (Richie calling him with Bill to tell him about Beverly; Richie standing tall in front of his friends to face Pennywise with Bill in it’s arms; Richie with his hand on Beverly’s knee as he crouched down in front of her in her blood-stained bathroom, telling her that she wasn’t crazy, not in the least; Richie calling him every night for six whole months after that fateful summer just to hear him breathe. Richie. Richie. All his thoughts lead back to _Richie.)_

Richie became half-hero, half-lover after that summer. Bill has always been all god, something that Eddie felt unworthy of even standing next to. But Richie is an attainable sort of hero now; not the same degree of worship that he feels towards Bill, but rather something that simmers comfortably in his blood. Of course, once it boiled over, he found himself running from the feeling. But Eddie, though he’s always been a good runner, is absolutely terrible at running where he's told he should. He ran straight into Richie’s waiting arms, and he refuses to let go now that he’s latched on.

Eddie knows Richie's noticed that he pushes him away more forcefully than ever before when they’re in public. He hasn’t asked why, but Eddie can see the momentary flash of hurt whenever it happens. Eddie always looks away, has trained himself to, because otherwise he would find himself doing everything he can to fix the pain he caused. Whenever they’re in public, he feels like there’s a sheet of bulletproof glass between them keeping them from touching one another—like if he were to speak, to scream, Richie wouldn’t even be able to hear a sound, even if he could see him clearly. He _needs_ to push Richie away, because it is much too hard to bear being near him if he can’t be _with him._ He intends to never tell him that’s the reason why he does this. He allows Richie to think he’s just cruel—and maybe he’s right, Eddie thinks. Maybe Eddie Kaspbrak is simply selfish and cruel by nature, pushing and pulling like the tide depending on their environment, the people around them, his own mood.

But right now, they’re not in public, so right now, Eddie is clinging to him with a force neither of them have seen before, even in Neibolt. It’s been days since they’ve been able to find time to be alone—junior year is kicking their asses, in more ways than one.

Eddie has kept an even wider breadth of distance from Richie since they began their relationship because he doesn’t want Richie to have to deal with the same influx of slurs that he does. He knows Richie, Stanley, and Bill all got teased by Henry Bowers too when they were younger about being gay, even if they weren’t. Stanley and Bill never denied the claims, just told Henry to fuck off, and this made Eddie feel safe in his choice to have them as friends. It’s not that they knew about Eddie at the time; it was just such a ridiculous claim to them that they didn’t even deign to deny it. Henry was being an asshole, as he always would be.

Eventually, Richie, Stanley, and Bill became viewed as straight—Stanley and Bill because of their obvious crushes on various girls, and Richie because he’d learned how to mimic the words said by upperclassmen in the locker room. The idea was especially shut down once word got around that he and Jenny Lewis slept together. None of them knew about the magazines stashed underneath Richie’s bed or the secret way he’d coveted Eddie for years. None of them noticed. Richie is practiced in the art of make believe.

But Eddie is still called terrible slurs day in and day out, it’s just now people say them easily instead of shout them with intent to cause harm. He doesn’t know which is worse—the kids at their school that dole these words out like they’re nothing, or the adults that whisper words of warning to their children on the streets like they’re trying to protect them. _That’s the Kaspbrak boy. He’s a fruit, you know. A faggot. You remember what Pastor Kelly says about faggots, don’t you, dear? Keep your distance, I don’t want you catching his AIDS._ He always scrubs himself raw in the shower the second he gets home and ignores Richie’s nightly call after those interactions.

Eddie thinks it’d be easier for Richie to take getting hurt by him than to have those slurs flung at him and cut him to the bone as well. Eddie knows that being associated with him makes someone queer as well in this town. He wants life to be as easy as possible for Richie and the rest of his friends, so he never allows even the friendliest of touches in plain view of somebody who doesn’t or wouldn’t accept him.

When they’re alone though, Eddie does not hurt Richie. He never pushes him away—if anything, he only ever pulls him closer. He hopes Richie gets the message that this is who Eddie really is, that this is what he truly wants out of life. He doesn’t ever try to be cruel or selfish like he knows he can sometimes come off, all sharp edges he can't sand down no matter how hard he tries. Being with Richie like this is Eddie’s greatest source of happiness, and he tries to show him that through physical touch as best he can. He can’t believe that some people get to feel this way all the time, get to hold their partner’s hand on the street or neck them in the movie theatre or even just casually sling an arm around them in the cafeteria.

Richie, when he does touch Eddie, is always controlled, as if he’s paying attention to the world around them as well. Richie is brave, but he’s not stupid. He knows what certain touches look like to the outside world, has studied straight couples and the way they can do things so casually for years now. He knows how to toe the line between platonic and romantic so well at this point that Eddie worries he isn’t protecting Richie from hurtful words as well as he hopes.

For Richie, the difference between Alone and Not Alone comes in his sense of control. When they’re hiding from the world, shut inside one of their rooms with the doors locked and towels stuffed underneath the crack in the door to muffle noise, his movements are awkward and jerky and desperate. Eddie knows Richie has to hide just as much as he does. He wonders if the toll it takes on him is similar to his own. He wonders if any of this is even worth it.

But with just one touch from Richie comes that feeling of overwhelming _rightness_ , and he knows that it is. He’d be nuts to think any differently.

As Richie told him the night they got together, _you don’t get the chance to be with the one you really want every day._

The sun is beginning to set, and Eddie knows his mother will be coming home soon from her rounds picking up groceries and the placebos he still takes, a bargaining chip now and nothing more. _I promise to take all my meds for the rest of the week if you let me sleep over at Richie’s on Saturday._  Everything he does with his mother now is calculated. It’s Finals Week at Derry High, and whenever Eddie and Richie don’t have tests to be taking, they’re with each other or the rest of the Losers, so Eddie had to promise his mother he’d be home by dinner because she’s been getting suspicious by how much he’s out of the house lately. He’s getting a bit desperate in his touches as a result of knowing their time together is coming to a close, clinging to Richie’s side so tightly, he’s certain he'll have Eddie-shaped bruises forming on his hip come tomorrow morning. Richie doesn’t seem to mind though, his fingers dancing along Eddie’s spine as he prattles on about something one of the goats on Mike’s farm did last weekend. He cuts himself off with a laugh halfway through the story when Eddie drags himself impossibly closer.

“What?” Eddie pouts petulantly. Richie shakes his head, still laughing. “What’s so funny, you asshole, is cuddling funny to you?”

“No, darling, it’s just that you’re never like this. You’re like an octopus right now—all limbs!” he crows delightedly, flapping his arms and legs wildly against the bed. He stills suddenly and grabs Eddie to haul him even closer before he can protest, as if Richie can’t stand to be separated just as much as Eddie can’t.

Eddie shushes him even though no one is home for fear that the Wentworth will come home early from work and hear them, despite the towel underneath the door. The idea of someone catching them, someone _adult,_  even the Toziers who have always made Eddie feel nothing but welcome, is abjectly horrifying. “I’m not an octopus!”

“Inside Eddie is,” Richie hums.

“What the fuck is Inside Eddie,” he asks flatly, frowning up at Richie where his head is pillowed on his chest.

“There’s Inside Eddie and Outside Eddie!” Richie explains cheerfully, as if this is old news. “Inside Eddie is cuddly and clingy and soft and sweet—”

“I’m never sweet,” Eddie glares.

“Sure you’re not,” Richie agrees easily, and Eddie knows he’s lying, so he smacks his hip where his grip had gone a bit lax. Richie chuckles, shoulders relaxed and breathing slow and easy. Eddie’s head rises and falls with his movements. “Outside Eddie is still good… just different.”

“Different how?” Eddie asks with a raised eyebrow. He knows the answer—knows the _real_ answer—but he also knows that Richie probably doesn’t and wants to see what he thinks. Richie considers this for a while until he seems to give up with a shit-eating grin.

“Different like how I am with your mom. She’s much more _responsive.”_

“Stop it, you freak!” Eddie shrieks around a laugh. Eddie never, under any circumstances, beeps Richie when they’re in private unless he’s done something genuinely hurtful. He hasn't thought too hard about why.

“Oh, Richie!” Richie calls out in a high, breathy moan that Eddie tries very valiantly not to respond to. “Darling, _take_ me!” He’s writhing on the bed beneath Eddie a bit too extravagantly to be considered sexual.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Eddie yells, lightly slapping Richie over and over anywhere he can reach him—his hips, his thighs, his stomach, his chest. “My mom would _never_ call you darling! She calls you _that dirty Tozier kid! I’m_ darling!” Eddie is now on top of Richie, legs on either side of him and knees digging into his hips to keep him from squirming. Richie had been allowing Eddie to pound half-heartedly against his chest with his fists until he said that. He grabs Eddie’s wrists easily, like he could’ve all along which infuriates Eddie to no end, and laces their fingers together. He smiles sweetly.

“Yes you are, Eddie my love. You’re my darling.”

“No one else!” Eddie shouts angrily, trying to hold onto his annoyance, but his resolve is quickly weakening the longer Richie looks at him with soft, fond eyes. Richie shakes his head without breaking eye contact.

“No one else. Never ever.”

“Good,” Eddie huffs, laying back down on top of Richie in a heap. Richie giggles, and Eddie knows any chance he had of keeping up the act of frustration is sunk because that sweet, breathy laugh is his favorite sound on earth. He never lets Richie know that, but he’s pretty much positive he knows regardless. He hopes so at least. Eddie’s body goes boneless at the sound, and Richie uses this opportunity to snake his arms around Eddie’s waist.

“Definitely good,” Richie responds. “Very, very good.” It’s quiet for a long, peaceful moment, and Eddie is more than content to breathe in the scent of Richie’s shampoo where his nose is pressed into his hair, but he knows how much Richie hates any type of silence, even the most content ones. So Eddie begins rambling about his final project in English, and he can feel Richie smile into his neck as he pulls him closer.

“You know,” Eddie says after a while of talking about his topic for his final essay in English, “I really wish I could tell my mom.”

“Tell your mom what, Spaghetti?” Richie asks nervously, as if he already knows what Eddie’s going to say before he does. How infuriating. “How pretty I am?”

“Uh. Sorta.” Richie stops moving, and because of this, so does Eddie.

“You do?”

“I mean, yeah. It’s nice that the Losers know and everything, but this is important shit happening in my life. Even if I don’t tell her about _you_ per say, I kinda just wish I could tell her that I’m gay. Don’t you wish you could tell your parents?”

“Oh, ha, yeah,” Richie chuckles, far more nervous than before. “Totally.”

“Okay, spill, Tozier,” Eddie sighs, propping himself up on Richie’s chest to look at him properly. “What’s with the weirdness?”

“Oh, just — I mean… they kind of… already know?” Richie says, and although it’s inflected like a question, the phrasing betrays fact. The Toziers know.

“How _much_ do they know?” Eddie asks slowly.

“I mean, I came out to them before I even came out to you guys,” Richie says, shuffling awkwardly. “I didn’t tell them about the clown shit, but I told them that I’m kinda-gay.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, and he tries to feel disappointed, thinking he should want Richie all to himself like most couples do, but he doesn’t. He’s relieved that Richie’s parents are so accepting, especially considering how they’ve only seemed to grow closer since the summer of ‘89. “That’s-that’s great, Rich. Wow. Big wow.”

“Yeah, big wow indeed. They kinda… figured out the shit with you and I on their own. I mean, my dad caught me stealing his blazer and my mom went around the house like a madman the day after our first date looking for all the candles. They’re happy for us.”

“Really? Wow,” Eddie repeats, feelings a bit dumb with the influx of surprising information.

“Totally. They’re just glad we’re both happy and safe. My mom did a whole shit ton of research and then gave me a safe sex talk after I came out to her. Totally embarrassing, but she did give me condoms and lube and stuff even though I was, like, fourteen at the time and didn’t really plan on using them with anybody but your mom for a while. She said it’s better to be safe than sorry or something. She’s the best.”

“Gotta love that Mags,” Eddie murmurs, looking away, slightly overwhelmed by the fact that Richie’s parents _know_ and are _cool with it._ How is he ever supposed to act normal around them again?

“Gotta love that Mags!” Richie repeats with much more enthusiasm. “Anyway, what were you saying before about your essay on SeaWorld?”

“Oh! Okay, so the dolphins there are _completely_ mistreated. Yeah, I read it in the paper and everything, so I was able to cite sources, which is probably why I got such a good score.”

“Wait. You read the paper? For fun? How old are you, 90?”

“Hey! It’s cool to read the paper! Stanley reads the paper!” Eddie defends hotly.

“Oh, well, if _Stanley_ says it’s cool to read the paper, who the fuck am I to judge?” Richie teases, twisting his neck to lean in closer to Eddie.

“Fuck off, you asshole,” Eddie laughs, bumping their foreheads together lightly. “Anyway, okay, so the trainers are _awful_ to them. There was a whole exposé, I’ll bring the article to school on Monday.”

“Oh, please do,” Richie says, a teasing smile on his face. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s being mean or being genuine. Probably both, knowing Richie.

“There were pictures and everything. It’s so sad.”

“Sounds it,” Richie comments, leaning back so he’s looking at the ceiling once again. Eddie puts his head on Richie’s chest as he continues, and Richie reaches for Eddie’s hands so he can play with his fingers. Eddie tries not to smile because he knows Richie will hear it in his voice.

Because that’s what Eddie does: he bites back the soft and affectionate after the years of the half mindless, half snake-eyed doting his mother did. Anger is the easiest emotion for Eddie to feel, but he finds he’s almost never truly mad at Richie, and that worries him. He knows that’s what love is, what it must be or is supposed to be: accepting someone, flaws and all, and liking all of them anyway.

But Eddie can’t deal with loving Richie—loving anyone, really, at least romantically. That’s much too big of a risk to take, something Pennywise could latch onto and suck from him until he’s merely a shaking shell of a man. Not loving Richie now that they’re Something Different is a choice Eddie is trying to make for both of their sakes. The threat of Pennywise is always lurking. It could (will, will, will) come back. It could _feast on their fears._ Eddie is not afraid to love Richie, because he _doesn’t_ love him. Richie is his best friend, and that's all he is. Eddie won’t allow himself to admit to something as vulnerable and unending as love, because self-preservation is his best defense against fear. Pennywise can’t take something from him that doesn’t exist.

Eddie wants to love Richie; he knows somewhere deep inside himself where he has buried his most base desires and impulses that he probably already does. But he won’t allow himself to. He _can’t._

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from knowing the truth, even if he’ll never admit it out loud. The truth, along with Pennywise, is always one step ahead of and behind them. It’s only ever waiting to be noticed.


	12. September, 1993

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s some Sexy Stuff in this. i still think it warrants the M rating bc it’s p tame, but if u disagree u can lemme know! fyi, they’re both 17 when Sexy Stuff occurs.

_Where your soul goes, you will find me_  
_Follow you there I will blindly_  
_Your lips, they taste like June_  
_Your eyes are a rocket to the moon_  
_Those legs gon’ put me in a tomb  
__Praise God when you hit me with the “Ooh”_

—Ooh, Jon Bellion

 

The closest Eddie ever gets to telling Richie he loves him happens three times on the same comfortable Sunday afternoon in the beginning of their senior year in high school.

The scene is sweet, in every sense of the word. Richie is talking animatedly about boats, or, like, woodworking or something. Eddie doesn’t know, he can’t really keep up, and truth be told, he doesn’t really care all that much, but he’s still trying to listen dutifully as he eats Sour Patch Kids on the floor of Richie’s room. They haven’t left Richie’s house all weekend and Eddie is going a little stir-crazy. He doesn’t know how Richie isn’t; his boy is all kinetic energy expanding in every direction, and being cooped up in a two-story building for three days sounds like a living nightmare to Eddie for someone like that. Eddie knows they’re going out later—Beverly called Richie’s house this morning to demand they TP their gym teacher’s house after the sun goes down because he's being awful to Ben, which Richie (and Eddie, who had been listening in) readily agreed to. Neither of them can wait for it.

Eddie _loves_ to pull pranks with Beverly and Richie. Because they, like, _really_ pull them. When they go, they go all out. Once, the three of them lit off illegal fireworks along with Stanley at the quarry. They had gotten too close to the treeline at one point and nearly burned Derry to the ground. (“Too bad we didn’t, am I right, fellas?” Richie crowed as they fled the scene.) The three (sometimes four if Stanley decides he wants to that day) of them are a weird little squad, but they balance each other out perfectly.

Eddie sometimes feels like the odd man out with those two—too anxious and uptight, too wild in all the wrong places for him to ever fit. Sometimes he thinks Beverly and Richie make more sense, both as friends and as a couple, even though neither of them ever make him feel that way. Maybe he and Stanley do, too, by that logic. Their individual idiosyncrasies make sense to each other.

But then Eddie thinks that probably isn’t what a romantic relationship is about. That Eddie would get bored of doing the same things with Stanley, and Richie would feel the same about Beverly, even if the things they would do in those relationships couldn't be more different. Eddie and Richie thrill each other in a way they don’t get with anybody else. Every day is something new, an adventure to be had. In a way, they make more sense as partners than anybody else Eddie knows. Richie is his boy, Beverly is their sister, and Stanley is their brother. Eddie loves all the Losers as if they’re elevated family members, but there’s something about Beverly, Stanley and Richie that makes him feel both safe and wholly alive all at once. It probably has something to do with the way Beverly and Stanley defended him and Richie to Bill when they came out to the Losers a few months ago.

But more importantly, hanging out with Beverly is _hours_ away, and Eddie can’t just keep gorging himself on sweets and listening to Richie prattle on about nothing until then.

Okay, maybe he can.

Because Richie is lounging on the bed, one leg hanging off the edge and swinging listlessly as he speaks, using his hands to explain himself more than his mouth, and Eddie can’t stop _watching_ him. He knows he should be paying attention—Richie always at least _tries_ to pay attention to him even in swells of hyperactivity because that’s what good partners do—but he’s honest to God distracted by how _good_ Richie looks, which is probably why he hasn’t demanded they leave the house yet.

It’s the way the light is hitting Richie’s skin and making him glow, casting shadows over his face and exaggerating the cut of his cheekbones and jaw. The window is gaping open to let the air circulate throughout the room, and it’s billowing the curtains and tousling Richie’s hair slightly. His threadbare t-shirt has ridden up on his stomach without him knowing it to show the trail of dark hair there. His sharp hip bones are exposed and jutting out against his sweatpants. Eddie can just barely make out the outline of his dick through the thin, grey material, and holy shit. Jesus. He looks fucking incredible. Like a greek god or some gross shit like that. Sculpted from all of Eddie’s fantasies. Eddie kind of feels like he has to lie down. It’s a little bit disgusting how attracted to Richie he is.

He doesn’t remember exactly when Richie grew into his body and out of the Mack-Truck-Puberty phase, but it happened, and now Eddie doesn’t want to look at anything else ever again. He’s Eddie’s favorite man, and he really wants to tell him that.

Instead, he says something else.

“Sometimes it seems like you’ve got flowers growin’ outta you or some shit,” Eddie blurts out, hands gesticulating wildly as he cuts off Richie’s rant about how much he hated  _The Great Gatsby._ (How the fuck did he go from boats to _The Great Gatsby?_ Whatever, not important. Bigger problems. Much bigger problems. Like digging himself the fuck out of this hole _immediately.)_ Richie is staring at Eddie now the way Eddie had been staring at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly in shock. Eddie tries to continue, mumbling, “Like Queen Anne’s Lace or something. A weed so beautiful, you think it’s a flower. And, uh, you know how much I love flowers, so…”

Richie looks endlessly delighted at this, sitting up slowly. Richie moves away from the open window, so the light moves away from his face and the wind can’t reach his curls and his shirt shifts to cover his stomach. All of it makes Eddie frown, but most especially Richie’s expression. “Does that mean you _loooove_ me?”

“I didn’t fucking say that,” Eddie snaps, looking away and popping another Sour Patch Kid into his mouth. Green. Of course. The worst color. Eddie is pretty positive he deserves _at least_ an orange right now, if not a red. He blames Pennywise. He’s sure that asshole has something to do with it.

“Oh, sure, okay. We’ll go with that _bullshit_ lie.”

“It’s not a bullshit lie!” Eddie yells with a mouthful of terrible, green Sour Patch Kid. Richie laughs at this and Eddie frowns, closing his mouth and swallowing before continuing with the same amount of vigorous anger. “I hate you! I hate your stupid hair and how it’s always sticking up in the wrong places. Like, use some product! Stanley has offered to let you use his multiple times! It’s not that hard! Five minutes of your precious time! And you smell _so bad all the time._ Soap is your friend, Richie. Learn to use it. And while we’re at it, can you wash your face every once in a while? The acne is getting out of _control_ and _why are you smiling right now?_ I’m literally ripping into you!”

“Because you called me beautiful, so all your whining is moot. You _love_ me. It’s all said with _love.”_

“God, it is not!”

Richie slithers to the floor and wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, pulling him down with him despite Eddie’s struggling against him. Richie closes his eyes and hums softly, which makes Eddie stop protesting as much. “It’s okay, darlin’. You know I feel the same.”

Eddie blushes fiercely and glares at the side of his face despite the fact that Richie can’t see him. He’s honestly very glad about that because he knows Richie would use the flush of his cheeks against him. Probably because he’s got Richie’s blood in his system now. Maybe it's caused some weird blood-bond between them and now Richie can read his mind. Okay, probably not. But the red of his cheeks is still incriminating as hell. His body is a beast he can't seem to tame, working against him to betray the truth in a way he never does out loud.

At least, until now.

“You hate me?” Eddie asks, all hope, and he wishes it didn’t come out as small as it does, but he can’t control everything he does all the time. It’s exhausting. He just wants to rest.

So he does. He lets his head fall against Richie’s chest and sighs, deeply affected by this entire conversation in a way he doesn’t ever think he’ll be able to explain to himself, let alone to anyone else.

“Very, very much,” Richie answers, kissing his forehead sweetly.

There’s a long silence filled with Richie running his fingers through Eddie’s hair, their soft breathing against each other’s skin and the repeated scratch of the record they’d been listening to having finished. Eddie’s still looking at Richie despite Richie continuing to rest his eyes, and he thinks he looks so pretty with the patterns the light through the lace curtains are making against his face. He wants to kiss him. He wants to do way more than kiss him. But then he starts to think about the fact that he and Richie have barely done anything more than what they did at Sally Mueller’s. Well, at least _Eddie_ hasn’t.

Richie lost his virginity a year and a half ago, and Eddie would be lying if he said it doesn’t make him a little jealous now that he and Richie are an item. Richie is _experienced!_ He knows way more about this stuff than Eddie does! Eddie wanted to be able to explore that kind of shit clumsily and at the right time with his first partner, with Richie. But knowing that Richie’s already had sex makes him feel inadequate somehow. Richie probably wants it even more now that he’s gotten a taste, which makes Eddie hold back even further as a result. He doesn’t want to be the only clumsy one in bed. That seems worse to him than never having sex at all.

Richie notices Eddie’s growing discomfort due to his squirming and gnawing on his lower lip, and eventually he sighs, tugging on Eddie’s hair a bit. “Alright, spit it out, Eds. What’s got your goat?”

“Nothing,” Eddie says instinctively, defensive probably due to the nickname that always tugs at his stomach insistently when he hears it. “Everything’s fine.”

“Lie number two of the day! And it’s only 1 o’clock!” Richie cries, pumping his fist in the air triumphantly.

“God,” Eddie hisses, rolling his eyes. “Fine. You really wanna know?”

“Obviously. I _did_ ask.” Eddie hates him, just a little.

“It’s just that, like, you’ve already had sex, you know?” Richie jolts a bit in surprise that this was what was on Eddie’s mind, but Eddie doesn't pay attention as he prattles on, already lost in his own thoughts. “And I haven’t. Obviously. And, like, I’m sure you _want_ to do it with me, or at least again in general. I mean, I know you want to. At least, uh, I think you do. And so do I, but not as much because I haven’t ever had it, you know? I don’t really know what I’m missing, and I’m probably better off that way and, oh God, why are you still with me? This is so stupid, I’m holding you back, I’m—”

 _“Alright,”_ Richie stresses, cutting Eddie’s rant off by sitting up and climbing back up onto the bed. He faces Eddie who’s now rocking a little bit, and he chuckles quietly. “Jesus, you can get yourself worked up over anything. Listen, okay, Eds? Are you listening?” Eddie nods distractedly. “Liar. Come up here, alright? You with me, sunshine?” Eddie nods again, a bit more clear-headed this time, and does so, sitting on the opposite end from Richie up by the pillows.

When Richie reaches out to grab his hands, Eddie tugs them out of reach. Richie frowns at this, hurt, but Eddie realizes that wasn’t even what he wanted at all in the first place and grabs for Richie’s hands again, which he gives him readily along with a tight squeeze. He doesn’t pull Eddie closer, though Eddie kind of wishes he would.

“I don’t care,” Richie says, voice thick with insistence. “Understand? I don’t care. Not about Jenny, not about what I did with her, not about the fact that you’ve never done it, none of it. I don’t think about sex with her or anyone else in the same way as I think about sex with you. Maybe it’s because you’re a dude, maybe it’s because I actually care about you. I don’t know. Probably a mix of both. Either way, it was just cherry poppin’ to me. I barely even liked it, especially the foreplay. It was honestly pretty boring. Nothin’ big. Well… I mean, that’s not what she said after we were done, but…”

“Jesus christ, Richie,” Eddie sputters, laughing and shaking his head. “I mean, like… Didn't it… did she… matter?”

“You’re really bothered by this, huh?” Eddie shrugs, muttering _I’m bothered by everything_ under his breath. He doesn’t say it for Richie, mostly just says it to himself, but Richie huffs out a laugh in response.

“I’m asking, aren’t I?” Eddie says instead, louder and for Richie instead of himself. Richie smiles at him for a long time, gently, kindly, and Eddie starts squirming again, letting go of Richie’s hands to muss up his hair anxiously. “Stop looking at me like that, you freak!”

“Like what?” Richie asks, crawling towards Eddie, eyes unnaturally wide behind his glasses. “Like this?” Eddie bites his bottom lip in an attempt not to smile, but when Richie reaches him and bears down on him with his knees touching Eddie’s and digging into the mattress, hovering above with the same goofy expression, Eddie can’t help but laugh.

“No,” Richie says eventually once Eddie has calmed down.

“I mean it! Stop!”

“No, I mean… She didn’t matter.” Richie collapses back onto his feet so he and Eddie are on the same level again. “No one else does. No one comes close.” Richie reaches up to tuck a lock of hair that Eddie had tried to use to hide with behind his ear. Eddie looks up from where he’d been staring at his hands from underneath his eyelashes and finds Richie smiling. No malice, no resentment, no fear. Eddie wonders how he can do that. “No one could even hold a candle to you, Eddie.”

A long pause. “...Oh.”

“Oh? That all you got?”

“Jesus, you’re a trip. Fuck me, oh my God.”

“Mm, gladly,” Richie smirks. Eddie glares, but he knows his giggle is definitely undercutting its already half-hearted intensity. “Alright. Now that that’s out of the way, can we _do something?”_

“We’re doing something with Beverly in an hour and a half, remember?”

“Yeah, but I wanna do something _now.”_

“God, you’re such a whinebagger,” Eddie sighs around another laugh, shaking his head.

Richie stares at him for a long time before incredulously asking, “What?”

“A whinebagger? You’ve never heard of that?” Richie shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “It’s, like, a person who whines a lot. Context clues, Rich. God, pick up a dictionary every once in a while…”

“Eddie. That’s not in the dictionary. That’s not even a word. In any language.”

“What?! Is so! It’s English!”

“Is not.”

“Is so! Wanna bet?”

“Absolutely,” Richie says, drawing out the word and finally getting up off the bed to cross the room and get the dictionary his mother demands he keep on his bookcase in case he needs it while studying. “If I win, I get to get you off.”

 _“What?!”_ Eddie squeaks, eyes widening and cheeks flushing. “No way!”

“Why not?” Richie asks without looking up from where he’s flipping through the dictionary at his desk. He’s on V already, ugh.

“Because! I can’t… you know, _return the favor,”_ Eddie stresses, looking away. “The idea alone is fucking nerve-wracking.”

“I don’t care,” Richie shrugs. “If that’s what’s holdin’ ya back, you literally never have to touch my dick in your life. I just wanna touch yours.”

“Okay, I never said _that…”_ Richie’s head shoots up out of the book, eyebrows raised with a goofy smile on his face.

“Really?”

“I mean… yeah…” Eddie shuffles in place, wanting as much distance as possible from Richie during whatever this weird-ass conversation is. “I just… you can’t do… you know, _more than that.”_

“You mean give you a blowjob? Anal? Eat you out? All of the above?” Richie supplies tactlessly.

“Just the first one,” Eddie says, blushing fiercely. “You know. Clown stuff.”

“Sure,” Richie says, much more softly than before. “That’s fine, Eds. Promise.”

“Yeah?” Richie nods with a small, satisfied grin, just happy to be discussing it at all. Richie is way too good for him. “Okay.”

“Okay. Now let’s get to the good stuff,” Richie says, getting up and reaching for him.

“No way! You didn’t even look up if whinebagger is a word!”

“I don’t need to to know that it’s not,” Richie snorts. “But for your information, I _did_ look it up. Go see for yourself.” Eddie rushes over to the desk, avoiding physical contact with Richie as he does so by arching his body away from Richie’s wandering hands, and searches the open page.

“Whine… Whined… Whiner… Whines… Whining… What the fuck? Where the fuck is whinebagger? This is a shitty dictionary, it doesn’t count.”

“Sure, Eds, tell that to Merriam and Webster, I’m sure they’d be more than happy to tell you why you’re wrong.”

“Well, it’s probably really old!” Eddie defends hotly.

“Check again, cutie. The ‘rents got it for me when I went into high school.” Eddie _does_ check, and finds it dated 1990.

“Motherfucker,” Eddie hisses, and Richie bursts out laughing. “I swear I didn’t make it up! My dad used to say it all the time! My mom said it just last week! I guess I’ve just never used it outside the house before.”

“Must not’ve because I definitely would’ve picked up on that weird little Eddie-ism. Pretty sure good ol’ Frankie K made it up.” Eddie sighs angrily and slams the book shut. Richie laughs again at Eddie’s rigid posture, closed off completely with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Jesus, babe, you’re really wound tight about this.”

“I’m wound tight about everything,” Eddie snaps.

“Can’t argue with that,” Richie chuckles from his place lounging on the bed once again. He pats beside himself. “Join me? You’re off the hook, bet’s off. I just wanna cuddle.”

“We’ve been cuddling for, like, three full hours, Rich,” Eddie says, softening at Richie’s words. Richie just shrugs and pats the bed again. Eddie shuffles in place again, toeing at the carpet. “I mean… The bet doesn’t _have_ to be off…”

“Holy shit,” Richie breathes, eyes wide as he bolts upright. “You’re serious?”

“Sure,” Eddie shrugs, trying to seem nonplussed in the face of Richie’s excitement, but his anxious energy is coming out through his jittery movements.

“I don’t want to if you’re nervous about it,” Richie frowns.

“I’m always gonna be nervous about it, Richie,” Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes. “It’s my first time. I know that Beverly keeps saying virginity is a social construct and shit, but… it’s still, like, a really big deal for me. Especially due to the… gender makeup of the situation.”

“Tactful,” Richie says honestly, smiling. “I mean, it’s big for me, too. And I don’t just mean literally.” Eddie groans, rolling his eyes, which makes Richie laugh. “Uh, you know, I’ve never stroked anyone off but Little Richie. I’ve never had sex with a guy at all. I’m sure it’s not that hard, though. Listen close, pay attention, don’t throw up. Pretty easy.”

“Why the fuck would you throw up?” Eddie demands, wringing his hands nervously at the thought that Richie would throw up because he doesn’t find Eddie attractive. That would suck ass, what with how attracted Eddie is to him.

“Nervous,” Richie shrugs.

“Not because I’m...?” Eddie can’t finish his sentence, but the word _ugly_  rings through his head in surround sound.

“Your prettiness is what will _make_  me vomit, dude,” Richie laughs. “You’re hot as hell.”

“If you throw up on me, I swear to God, I will never speak to you again,” Eddie promises, pointing at Richie as he walks closer.

“Noted,” Richie says, nodding once and saluting before reaching out for Eddie. “Now, c’mere. We gotta work up to it. Foreplay and all that jazz.”

“I thought you didn’t like foreplay,” Eddie smiles, crowding Richie’s space where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. He immediately reaches out to cup Richie’s cheeks once he’s near enough to, and Richie grabs at the open halves of his borrowed hoodie, pulling him even closer between his spread legs.

“Pretty sure I’m gonna like it with you,” Richie says, cotton-soft.

And when he looks down at Richie whose smile is absolutely luminous, cheeks flushed with excitement, Eddie doesn’t have the constant stream of nasty words spit at him from childhood running through his head. The Bible verses, Henry Bowers’ voice, his pastor’s voice, his mother’s voice, It’s voices, they’re all quieted. He isn’t scared.

So when Richie leans in and kisses him, Eddie doesn’t have any negative feelings or malignant thoughts to will away. They simply aren’t there at all. And because of this, Eddie gets really into it really fast, years of pent up energy expending itself all at once.

He pulls at the sweatshirt he stole from Richie, pushing it off his own shoulders hastily as their kiss turns heated. He goes to take off the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath it, but decides against it to instead grab at Richie’s shirt, attempting to tug it up over his head without breaking the kiss, deciding it’s much more important that he sees Richie naked before anything else. Richie snorts, grabs his overexcited hands making little work of actually removing anything and pulls them away so he can shuck off the shirt himself. He pitches it mindlessly across the room, but before Eddie can get a good look at him, Richie is tugging him onto the bed for another fierce kiss.

It probably wouldn’t look all that good from an outsider’s perspective. It’s definitely not well-orchestrated, nothing directorial about their mouths too-open or their tongues swiping eagerly against each other’s lips at the same time or their heavy breathing mixing together. There’s way too much excitement in their movements for anything to look sexy. But it _feels_ sexy. It feels really, really good. Eddie’s pretty sure that’s how it’s supposed to feel, and the idea that he’s doing anything that has to do with sex _correctly_ is staggering.

Eddie doesn’t really remember them getting naked, but suddenly they’re down to only their boxers, and the feeling of skin-on-skin for the first time is electrifying. Eddie ruts against Richie, panting into his mouth, and their cocks grazing through the thin layer of their underwear shoots sparks down Eddie’s spine. _“Holy shit,”_ Eddie breathes out, which makes Richie nod furiously in agreement.

“Can I… Please, sweetheart, can I touch you? I wanna touch you. We can just do this if you want, but fuck, I wanna touch you. Wanna make you feel so fucking good, baby.” Eddie nods dazedly, marveling at how Richie’s voice already sounds so wrecked when they've barely even done anything.

“Yeah,” he breathes. Richie flips him over so that he’s now hovering above Eddie and looks him up and down, eyes hot. Eddie takes this opportunity to do the same.

“Christ,” Richie mutters. “You’re so hot. How are you so hot?”

“I eat my greens,” Eddie pants, staring distractedly at his fingers running down the middle of Richie’s chest and scratching at the thin hair in the center. Richie shivers. “You should try it.”

“Unfair,” Richie groans, voice thick with arousal. “You know how your insults turn me on.” Eddie smirks and shrugs.

“Isn’t that the point?” Richie raises his eyebrows and smiles, nodding.

“Absolutely.” He palms Eddie through his boxers, and Eddie almost blacks out from how good it feels to _finally_ have Richie touch him. He’s been fantasizing about this for literally years and he can’t believe he didn’t throw all of his anxieties out the damn window when it feels _this fucking good._ He wonders if maybe Richie had been lying about his first time, because this is nowhere near _boring_ and they aren't even going to have penetrative sex. Eddie whines high in his throat, already _way_ too close to this being over. He’s caught between wanting it to last forever and wanting to come on Richie’s chest as soon as possible.

“God,” Richie mutters, shaking his slightly head in amazement. “You sound so good.” Eddie flushes even darker at the praise and his breath hitches when Richie pulls at the waistband of his boxers. “Can I take these off?”

“Please do,” Eddie pants, staring at the thick tent in Richie’s boxers, wanting so badly to do the same. He tips his hips up and Richie slowly pulls off his boxers, careful not to get them caught on his dick which slaps up against his stomach, hard and red and leaking and _christ,_ that’s embarrassing and not hot in the slightest. Richie, however, seems to disagree as he stares revertently at him.

“I can’t believe this, oh my God,” Richie says, eyes wide. “You’re so… Fuck.”

“Are you gonna do anything or am I gonna have to do this all myself?” Eddie sighs, which makes Richie lean back on Eddie’s thighs excitedly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Go ahead!”

“No way. I’m not gonna get myself off while you just sit there. Not happening.” Eddie doesn’t say _I barely know how to do any of this to myself anyway,_ but he definitely thinks it. Richie shrugs, uncrossing his arms and leaning back in with a smile.

“You _were_ the one who offered, but this is more than fine with me.”

Eddie swears he has some sort of snappy retort ready, but it dies on his tongue the second that Richie spits on his hand and starts pumping his dick slowly. Eddie doesn’t even think about how gross that is. He honestly thinks it was incredibly sexy. _Sex changes people,_ he thinks a bit sourly. And then he stops thinking at all when Richie twists his wrist as it devolves from there, all sharp breaths and quiet moans and both of them being pretty sure they’re dreaming.

“Eds,” Richie says insistently at some point, cupping Eddie’s cheek with his unoccupied hand. “Eddie, look at me.”

Eddie’s head shoots out from where it's mashed into the pillow and his eyes snap open both at the quiet insistence in Richie’s voice and the words themselves. He can’t believe how far they’ve come. From broken arms in a dirty house to expressions of love in a dirty room. What the fuck, right?

Eddie’s pretty sure people aren’t supposed to say that they love someone for the first time in the middle of sex. Like, that’s probably against the rules. If you tell someone you love them during sex, it doesn’t count, right? A crime of passion or whatever. He reasons with himself that this is totally fine, that he can deny it later if asked about it.

So when Richie twists his wrist again perfectly, groaning out, “Come on, Eds. Come for me. Bet you'll look so good,” and Eddie feels an insistent tug of arousal in his belly signifying he’s definitely going to come any second now, like, how hasn’t he already done so, he must be some sort of sex god, that’s the only explanation, he pants out, “Luh — Love y’. I love y— _f_ _uck._ Jesus, I’m gonna c-co—oh, my _God,_ Richie.” And, body taut, he comes on Richie’s hand and chest with a low moan and Richie's name repeating over and over on his lips like a mantra, a prayer, mind numb and buzzing.

He comes down from his high a shaking, panting mess, and he can hear Richie in a similar state still hovering above him. Eddie cracks his eyes open and smiles lazily, his mid-cotius confession the last thing on his mind. Richie smiles tightly back, arms shaking as he pushes up and hooks his thumb behind him.

“Can I, uh, go deal with this?” Richie asks, gesturing to his dick pitching such an obvious tent in his boxers that Eddie doesn’t know how it isn’t showing up for satellites.

“No,” Eddie says, shaking his head.

“No?” Richie asks incredulously. “What do you expect me to do then? I can promise you this shit ain't goin’ away.”

“I expect you to come here.” Richie eyes widen and he doesn’t seem to be breathing at all.

“You can’t be serious,” he says.

“Oh, but I am,” Eddie smiles, reaching for him. “C’mon, baby, let’s get you off.”

“Ohhh, my God,” Richie groans, shaking his head as he comes closer. “That was the sexiest thing I will ever hear in my entire life. Spank bank material for the rest of time.”

“Don’t be gross when I’m trying to figure out how to do this,” Eddie says, staring intently at Richie’s Looney Tunes boxers, the wet patch on the front of them being a little more than incredibly intimidating.

“It’s not that hard. Just kinda do what you usually do with yourself at a different angle.”

“Uh. Yeah,” Eddie chuckles nervously, petting at the skin above the waistband. “Because I definitely do that all the time.”

“What, you don’t jack off constantly?” Eddie shakes his head without looking up.

“Feels, uh… dirty somehow. I only do it when, like, I can’t _not,_  and even then, it’s more perfunctory than anything.”

“That sucks!” Richie cries, which makes Eddie smile a bit. “Jacking off is the greatest!”

“Pretty sure _that_ was the greatest,” Eddie says dubiously, gesturing at the cum drying on Richie’s chest. Richie looks down and considers this with a nod.

“Yeah, that’s fair. Uh, I can… teach you? If you want?” Eddie cheeks heat up, and he shakes his head.

“I can do it myself, thanks. Like you said, it’s not that hard. It’s just a dick. A dick attached to _you._ Oh God, yeah, maybe you should walk me through this a little bit. I wanna make it as good for you as you made it for me.”

“Pretty sure it's gonna be good no matter what, babe, considering who the hand is attached to and everything,” Richie chuckles and then nods. “Okay. I’m gonna take these things off first though, alright?” Eddie nods and Richie quickly and ungracefully tugs his boxers down his legs, ditching them beside them on the bed. His dick hangs heavily between them, only slightly less hard than it looked like it was before. It looks a bit different than his own, longer, and it sets Eddie on fire that he finally gets to do this. “Now, take some of the precum at the tip and smear it over your hand. Or, like, if you want, you can use spit. Or if you wanna get _really_ fancy, you can use both. But you looked a little grossed out when I did the whole hand-spit-trick, so—” Without breaking eye contact, Eddie spits into his hand. “Oh. Okay. Jesus christ, alright. So just move up and down? Kind of like—oh, fuck, yeah, that’s fine, that’s great, that’s perfect.”

Richie hangs his head so their eye contact breaks and Eddie isn’t sure if he’s watching or not, but he kind of wants him to. “Are you watching?” Eddie asks. Richie nods.

“Yeah,” he responds hoarsely. “Looks so fucking hot.”

“Good,” Eddie says, starting to pump him a little faster. The angle’s a bit weird, and it’s definitely a little harder than doing it to himself because he knows what he likes and when to do it. But Richie is still instructing him, panting out, _“faster. Faster._ Yeah. Perfect, Eds, God, you’re perfect,” so it’s really not as hard as he assumed it’d be.

And then Richie starts making these _noises_ that Eddie swears make him see stars and his dick twitch in interest despite having only gotten off, like, seven minutes ago. He starts to strip Richie’s cock with the kind of speed he’s only been able to achieve the night he came home from Sally Mueller’s party. He hadn’t been particularly confident before then, but suddenly, he’s twisting his wrist the way Richie did to him and swiping his thumb over the slit at the head, not because Richie did it, but because he thinks it’ll feel good. It seems to, because Richie comes hard against Eddie’s hand and on both their stomachs.

Eddie stares. His eyes dart from the blissed-out expression on Richie's face to his hand on Richie’s dick. Richie collapses slightly from the force of his orgasm, and Eddie holds him up with one hand braced on his shoulder while he strokes him through it as he repeats Eddie’s name over and over in varying degrees of breathlessness as he comes down the same way Eddie had done a few minutes prior. After a while, Richie starts whining from oversensitivity which makes Eddie let go and Richie roll sideways to fully collapse back onto the bed.

Eddie stares at his cum-covered hand, and then looks over at Richie’s heaving chest, and uses his finger to swipe at the mix of their cum drying there. Richie turns his head and watches as Eddie sucks his finger into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks slightly to get all that he can off of it. It doesn’t taste _great_ to be honest—he’d mostly just been curious—but he’d do it a hundred more times if it always got Richie to look at him like _that,_ like he's awed Eddie exists at all.

“Fuck,” Richie chokes out, and Eddie smiles.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself,” Richie responds, cracking a returning smile. Eddie reaches for him, but Richie sits up before he can even notice. “I’m gonna go wash this shit off. There’s tissues there.” Richie points to the box on his bedside table and vaults himself over Eddie, pulling his boxers back on and walking out.

Eddie stares incredulously at his retreating form, confused and extremely worried. Does Richie somehow think that this was _casual?_ Because Eddie isn’t in this for a _wham, bam, thank you ma’am._ He thought that was obvious considering they’re dating. This is really fucking real for him, and he feels tears start to collect at the corners of his eyes as he cleans himself off and starts to hastily dress himself again. Richie comes back when Eddie is throwing his t-shirt back on.

“Aw, gettin’ dressed already? I thought we could just be naked for the rest of our lives. Go to school like that and everything.”

“That’s fucking illegal,” Eddie hisses, a bit more snappish than he would’ve been had Richie not bolted the second he got off.

“Woah. Did I do something?” Richie asks, his brows quirking in confusion, and Eddie looks away, shrugging.

“No. I just thought… Whatever, it’s fine. I’m just gonna go, I think.”

“Woah, woah!” Richie shouts, springing into action and rushing over to him, arms extended. He doesn’t touch him, probably for fear he’ll be pushed away. “What’s the hurry? Aren’t we gonna meet Bev later?”

“You can. I’m just gonna go home.”

“Please don’t,” Richie whispers, voice dripping in shame at his request. It makes Eddie look up in shock and when Richie sees the tears in his eyes, he makes a wounded noise, hands twitching towards Eddie again but still not making contact. “No. Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“I mean, it's fine. I guess you just, like, _left._ Whatever, you’re dating a guy, not a girl. I don’t want to tell you what to do, so I’m just gonna go.”

Richie cracks a smile as Eddie goes searching for his jeans, which makes his blood boil a little bit. “I know that I’m dating a boy. That’s kind of the point. But it’s not, like, _girly_ to wanna cuddle after sex. I just never have before. I didn’t know you even wanted to.”

“Well, I do,” Eddie says quietly, thumbing at the material of his pants in his hands.

“Well then, come on, superstar,” Richie says, taking the jeans from Eddie’s hands and dropping them on the floor before leading them back to the bed. Richie flings himself backwards and holds his arms out, looking expectant, so Eddie crawls onto the bed and tucks himself hesitantly underneath Richie’s arm, leaning his head onto his chest.

Eddie’s body is still pulled taut with singing nerves, and Richie immediately snakes his arm around Eddie’s shoulder to pull him closer, crushing Eddie’s arms curled into his chest between their bodies. Eddie puts his arm carefully over Richie’s bare stomach, just hovering there, suddenly gun shy about touching Richie in a way he hasn’t been when they’re alone in over a year. Richie puts his hand on Eddie’s arm and urges it down. When Eddie’s arm makes contact with his stomach, Richie hums happily, burrowing further into the sheets. That reaction emboldens Eddie a bit, and he relaxes slightly against Richie’s body. Richie grabs his hand and laces their fingers on his hip, and suddenly, Eddie isn’t scared at all.

“This _is_ nice, Eds. You were right,” Richie says quietly. “I guess cuddling like this has always been so, like, _intimate_ for me. Way more than sex is. Like, I’ve never done this part of being in a relationship with someone other than you. I've never dated anyone like this. It was never romantic with Jenny; just a means to an end. I guess this is like… my version of sex.”

Eddie smiles and looks up at Richie. “Yeah?” Richie nods and shrugs at the same time, somehow both communicating _I don’t know_ and _yeah, definitely._ “Okay. We don’t have to if you don’t want to. I didn’t know it was like that for you.”

“No, it’s… I like it. You gave me something, so I’m giving you something. That’s how this whole thing works, right?” Eddie frowns consideringly.

“I don’t think so. I think it’s just… whatever we’re comfortable with, we give, and we give all the way. It doesn’t have to be an equal thing, especially with things we’re uncomfortable with. Like, I might one day suck you off, but I can’t ever have you do that to me. Things like that. And I think that’s okay, because we’re communicating about it and being honest. That’s more important than anything being equal, probably: honest communication.”

“Yeah, that sounds… right. Better. I like that way better.”

Eddie kisses Richie’s chest. “Me, too, baby.”

After ten minutes of quiet words and tender touches, they hear Richie’s parents come home from their weekly movie date and call up to them. Eddie springs up immediately and throws Richie his sweatpants that were on the floor next to the bed. Richie pulls them on and yells back, “Hey, ma, we’re up here!”

Eddie pulls his jeans back on and buttons them hastily, still looking around for Richie’s shirt. “Jesus, babe, where the fuck did you throw it?” Eddie hisses. He gives up and throws Richie the sweatshirt he’s been wearing before throwing the towels they'd been using to muffle noise in the hamper. “Just use this.”

Richie has just shrugged it on after a quick thank you, not even having time to zip it when there’s a knock on the door. “Boys?”

“Hey, dad, you can come in.” Wentworth opens the door, Maggie peeking out behind him, and the moment he does, he wrinkles his nose.

“Jesus, guys, it smells _rank_ in here.”

“Tell us how you really feel, dad,” Richie snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna wash the sheets before Beverly comes over, promise.”

“Oh, Beverly’s coming? How fun!” Maggie smiles. “I’ve missed that girl.”

“Yeah, we’re going out to…” Eddie tries, trailing off and looking at Richie when he realizes he didn’t have a good lie prepared.

“A movie! Yeah. How was yours, by the way?”

“Good,” Maggie smiles. “A little too romantic for my tastes, but your father likes that kind of stuff, so I suffer.”

“Hey! She shed a tear or two, too, boys. Don't be fooled,” Wentworth winks. “What are you guys gonna see?”

“Oh, there’s a new _Friday the 13th_ movie out. Can’t wait,” Richie grins.

“Isn’t that Rated R?” Maggie asks, frowning.

“Oh. Yeah, but we’re both 17 now. Yessiree, I'm gonna be 18 in a couple months, and Eddie Spaghetti’s birthday was just last week! Look how cute he’s grown up into the handsome young man you see today,” Richie coos, diving onto the floor to pinch Eddie’s cheek. Eddie sighs and bats him away, staring up at Maggie and Wentworth exhaustedly from their place on the floor.

“Can you take him back? I don’t want him anymore,” Eddie says, much to Maggie’s delight.

“Sorry, Eddie, he’s all yours.” Maggie’s eyes flick to Wentworth’s briefly, more trying to share this exciting moment with her husband than anything else. Wentworth shoots them both a genuine smile.

“Looks like you’re stuck with him, Eddie. Make sure you invite us to the funeral, will you?”

“Guys!” Richie whines, draping himself dramatically over Eddie’s legs. “Be nice! I’m a sensitive gal!”

“We’re being very nice, Richie,” Wentworth says, leaning down to ruffle Richie’s curls. “Leaving you in Eddie’s care is the best thing for you.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Richie says, grinning up at Eddie. Eddie smiles, embarrassed to be sweet with Richie in front of anyone but _especially_ his boy’s _parents,_ and puts one hand over his face.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

“Can’t,” Richie says, shrugging. “Guess you’re just gonna have to live with it.”

Eddie sighs, cups his cheek in his hand and digs his elbow into Richie’s stomach. Richie curls inward with a little _oof,_ but the smile doesn’t leave either of their faces. “Guess so.”

“Richie! Eddie!” They hear from downstairs, the front door slamming open. “C’mon, it’s sundown! We gotta roll out!”

“And what’s so special about sundown?” Maggie asks with a funny little grin as she watches Richie and Eddie spring apart at the sound of Beverly’s voice, like they’d been caught in some deviant act when, really, nothing much was going on at all.

“Movie,” Richie says, looking around for his t-shirt. “It’s starting soon. We’ll see you guys later, alright?”

“Alright, Rich. Curfew’s at 11, we’ll leave the porch light on, okay?”

“‘Kay.”

“Eddie, are you staying the night, hon?” Maggie asks, and Eddie frowns, shaking his head.

“Can't. My ma would have my head if I slept over on a school night.”

“Well, you know you're always welcome if you change your mind,” Wentworth says with a kind smile.

“If only I could get him to!” Richie cries as he drops his sweatshirt off his arms and tosses it at Eddie who catches it gracefully and throws it on. “If it were up to me, he'd never leave my sight!” While Eddie shrugs on the jacket with blushing cheeks, Richie yanks on his own shirt. He pats at his pockets and twists his head around, searching for his keys. Eddie grabs them from the floor next to the bed and throws them at him so he can pocket them. “Thanks, man. Ready to roll out?” Richie asks. Eddie nods, and when they turn towards the door, they find the Toziers still standing there, matching amused smiles on their faces.

“Why are you guys just standing there like weirdos?” Richie asks.

“Nice dance you guys have down there,” Wentworth comments, ignoring Richie’s question.

“Uh,” Eddie says, _totally_ eloquently if you ask him, suddenly remembering the fact that the Toziers _know_ about them. Maggie gave Richie the Talk for shit’s sake! God, they just had sex! They must know already. Parent-spidey-senses and all that. That’s why they’re smiling all like they know all their secrets. Oh God, they’re both so fucked. Eddie’s never gonna be allowed over again. How are he and Richie gonna keep having sex if he can’t come over? Eddie is _not_  going without that anymore.

“Sure, dad,” Richie snorts, cutting off Eddie’s anxious thoughts with a casual roll of his eyes. He uses a blushing, wide-eyed Eddie as a battering ram to push through them.

“See you soon, Eddie!” Maggie calls sweetly as Eddie stumbles through the doorway, grumbling, and is about to take down the stairs when he realizes Richie isn’t behind him. He turns to find Maggie whispering to Richie, who grins and shoves her playfully.

“Fuck off, Mags,” he mumbles before taking off after Eddie. He turns around sharply, feeling a bit like a voyeur even though nothing had happened. Eddie rushes down the stairs as he hears Maggie call out for Richie behind him to deal with his laundry and shut the bedroom window before leaving. Eddie greets Beverly who’s waiting in the doorway.

“Took you assholes long enough,” she says, pulling at Eddie’s hand before Richie can even make it down the stairs. “Now c’mon, we gotta get this shit done. I’ve got all the toilet paper in my satchel.”

“Who the fuck calls their bag a _satchel?”_ Eddie asks, face screwed up in mild confusion.

“It’s bigger than a normal bag!” Beverly defends, swinging the bag on her shoulder around to her front. “See! Sorry, guess my vocabulary’s just more _expansive_  than yours. Me and all my fashion expertise. That means smarts. You know, for the lesser educated folks who may be in the room.” Her grin is cat-like and Eddie shoves her hard into the doorway. She bursts out laughing as Richie runs up to them.

“Yeah, guess you’re gonna have to study up if you wanna keep up with the big boys, Eds,” Richie says, rushing to Eddie’s side and knocking into him. “Sorry, had to throw my sheets in the wash.”

“Oh, _that_ doesn’t sound like something I want to know the details of,” Beverly says, wrinkling her nose in a more intense look of disgust than Eddie could ever dream of expressing. It’s kind of impressive actually. She looks them over and snorts indelicately. “Eddie, your fly is down.” Eddie blushes intensely and turns to descretely zip it back up while Richie cackles beside him, the asshole. “Come on, let’s go. Pretty sure Daniels is still out with his female suitor.”

“Female suitor?” Eddie asks dubiously as Richie lets out a sharp laugh and they hop off the Toziers’ porch.

“I mean, some chick who was at least 15 years his junior picked him up about an hour ago. Unsure if it's his wife or not, but it _did_ make me a little nauseous to see them kiss,” she shudders.

“Beverly Marsh, are you _stalking_ Mr. Daniels?” Richie gasps, using a Southern belle Voice for his next sentence. “Well, I’ll be. Little Miss Marsh is gonna get herself sent to jail! Whatever will I do, Mr. Kaspbrak? How will I raise the babies?!”

“I think you’ll be just fine, Mr. Tozier,” Eddie laughs, patting Richie’s back and rubbing a slow, intimate circle between his shoulder blades. He pulls away before any wandering eyes within the houses they’re passing can get a good look.

“Hurry up, you jags!” Beverly hisses, pulling at Richie’s hand so he catches up with her faster pace. “You guys are acting like this is our first rodeo.”

“Ooh, are we cowboy vigilantes? Damn, I’d see that flick. Oh, by the way, Marsh, have you seen the new Freddie movie? That’s Eds’ and I’s cover story for tonight, and I have a feeling Mags is gonna ask questions when I get home, the little shit that she is.”

“Talk to Bill, I know he has,” she says. “I think he went with Ben last weekend.”

“Traitor! They know I've been freakin’ out about this movie since I found out about it and they _didn’t invite me?!”_ Richie shrieks, immediately causing Eddie to shush him. “Rude.”

The TP-ing actually goes off without a hitch. Eddie should’ve known—if Beverly is in charge of something, it always goes according to plan. It’s Richie’s heists that always go awry. They laugh all the way back to Beverly’s apartment, discussing what Daniels and his _female suitor_ will think when they see it. They were just supposed to walk Beverly home, but when they arrive and Richie asks if her aunt is inside, her forlorn reply makes him push inside the building, tugging Eddie along behind him.

“We can’t let our poor, beautiful Beverly go _hungry,_ Eds! We’re not _monsters!”_

“Oh, so you want me to cook for you both is what I’m sensing,” Eddie deadpans. Richie nods delightedly before ascending the two flights of stairs it takes to get to Beverly’s floor.

“Thanks, doll! You’re a real peach!” Richie calls behind him, swinging his hips dramatically due to the fact that he’s taking the stairs two at a time. Eddie looks back to Beverly and frowns.

“Do you want me to go retrieve him? I know this isn’t part of the plan, and my newspaper horoscope told me that order thrills me, so I like knowing what’s gonna happen before it does anyway.”

“Order… thrills… you,” Beverly repeats, a bit stunned by the wording of this statement.

“I’m paraphrasing, but only slightly. You’re an Aquarius, right? It said you would have to problem-solve an argument and put yourself in someone else’s shoes. I don’t really think that applies here, but…”

“Eddie,” Beverly laughs, dropping her hands on the tops of Eddie’s shoulders before shaking them. “It’s okay. I like your guy’s company.”

“You do?” Eddie smiles.

“Duh,” Beverly says, rolling her eyes around a grin. “You’re like my sons. Or, like, my son and my brother. Wait, that’s worse. Kind of. I can’t make this work without it being totally creepy, but you’re _family._ Both of you are always welcome. I was just gonna work on some sketches for my portfolio tonight, but I’d love it if you’d cook for us while I sketch out this dress.”

“Okay,” Eddie nods, pulling Beverly up the stairs. “C’mon, before he burns the place down.”

Richie has surprisingly _not_ burned the place down, but has instead put on a Beach Boys record from Beverly’s aunt’s collection and the music is drifting through the small apartment when they walk in.

“Hello, Darling 1 and Darling 2! I got the garlic, the onion and the tomato out. Oh, also the olive oil, because you said that’s a healthier choice instead of butter for roasting all this shit. But I couldn’t find enough pasta for all three of us, so I think we’re gonna have to—”

“Oh no, there’s a full bag of those eggless noodles Mikey got me when I was trying to go vegan in the back of the pantry. I'm sure they're still good. Here, lemme look,” Beverly says, sticking her head into the small closet in her kitchen.

“Also, who said I wanted to make pasta?” Eddie demands, hands on his hips.

“You didn’t. _I_ said you wanted to make pasta,” Richie grins.

“God, my boy’s insufferable,” Eddie sighs, already moving to wrap the apron on the counter around his waist and get the cutting board out.

“Mmm, your boy. I like that,” Richie says, coming up behind Eddie to rest his hands on his hips.

“You’re being annoying. Let me work.”

“Not likely,” Richie simpers. He slip his hands into the pockets of Eddie’s apron and hooks his chin over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the corner of Eddie’s jaw. “You love me.”

“Fat chance,” Eddie scoffs, looking through the cutlery drawer he’s vaguely familiar with after all the time he’s spent cooking in Beverly’s apartment. (He’s actually spent all his time cooking in this kitchen and Bill’s rather than the one in his own home due to the fact that Sonia doesn't allow him to use the stove. The only reason he can make his way around a clove of garlic is from all the time he’s spent watching the Food Network while his mother snores in the recliner.)

“Mmm, alright, sure,” Richie hums, quietly enough so they’re out of earshot from Beverly. “You _did_ tell me you loved me _three times today,_ which by the way, hearing the last two almost made me come instantaneously, but it’s fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night, babydoll.”

“You’re 17. You come instantaeously when the wind blows.”

“The wind isn’t the only thing I come from getting blown by.”

Richie presses another kiss to Eddie’s burning cheek before he’s ripped away by Beverly.

“Let the man work!” she cries. “Ugh, you guys are being even more annoying than usual. Get your dicks wet on your own time, this is family hour! God, you kids are insatiable.”

“You’re damn right we are,” Richie grins proudly, but he walks towards the kitchen table with Beverly, blowing Eddie a kiss as he goes. Eddie catches it dutifully and tucks it into the pocket of the apron before turning back to the cutting board sharply, which seems to delight Richie based on his squeal. Eddie is grateful they’re both a bit of a distance away now though, because his hands were starting to shake from Richie’s words, which is less than ideal while holding a knife.

After that, Eddie works quietly while Beverly sketches and Richie uses some of Beverly’s aunt’s makeup at the table using the bright overhead lights in the kitchen with a small, scratched mirror propped up against the napkin holder. Beverly looks up to give him advice every now and then, and Eddie swears he’s never been more at peace.

Even with his own ugly confessions today, he can’t take them back, to Richie or to himself. He _does_ love Richie, loves him properly the way people are supposed to love their partners, and even though one of his first memories is of his mother telling him that love doesn’t work that way, that he _doesn’t_ love Richie, he knows now more than ever that she's wrong. He knew before today, he knew when he was pretending he didn't, he knew even before they ever got together, and he’ll know years from now when they’re both far away from Derry.

Eddie doesn’t know if they’ll even be together then, but Eddie knows inarguably that Richie Tozier is his first love. He wants him to be his last, too, but he knows the world doesn’t work that way. It’s not supposed to be this easy, so Eddie tirelessly works to make it harder for them. Christ, he can’t even call Richie what he is to him out loud. He calls him his _best friend_ and he calls him his _boy,_ but he’s far too terrified to put _boy_ and _friend_ together, even though he knows wholeheartedly that that’s the truth. Richie is his _boyfriend._ His first relationship. And even though everyone in this room knows it, even when he puts Richie’s dinner in front of him with a kiss on his glittered cheek, even when Richie helps him wash the dishes and walks him home, pressing a deep, lipsticked kiss against his mouth hidden away by the darkness of Eddie’s front porch, he still can’t say any of it out loud.

But he has finally accepted, at least to himself, that he loves Richie Tozier. He’s still afraid that Pennywise will use this knowledge against him, but at this point, It can just _try_ to take this from him. Eddie won’t go down without a fight anymore, not now that he’s finally got something worth fighting for. He’s still scared—of loving Richie, of loving a _boy,_ of all these stupid _(dirty, broken, ugly, disgusting)_ urges that he’s lost the ability to fight, of everyone who has the power to take it all away if they find out about it—but he isn’t afraid of Richie. He has never once been afraid of Richie. He can’t imagine he ever will be.


	13. January, 1994

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s some sexy stuff in this one too. pretty sure this is the last of that, so get your juice on.
> 
> also i hate how literally all of this chapter is from personal experience L O L don’t force religion on your kids send tweet
> 
> do i have to tag for accidental daddy kink

_Well, I’ve known beauty in the stillness of cathedrals in the day_  
_I’ve sung, “Glory Hallelujah! Won’t you wash my sins away?”_  
_But there’s no blaming all our failings on imaginary beasts_  
_No finger-pointing justified by phantoms up above_  
_Because there never was no God  
__We’re all in this together_

—Glory Hallelujah, Frank Turner

 

The scene is _hot_ until it isn’t.

Richie has an iron grip on Eddie hips as he rocks into him from behind. It’s a Sunday morning and Sonia will be gone for _hours._ Richie whines that it’s unholy to get up early for anything, but Eddie says they’re sinners already—they might as well get in line for hell early.

And maybe it’s a sin. Maybe. But god _damn_  does it feel good. Eve just wanted to know shit as far as Eddie is considered, so if they all have to pay for the “Original Sin” of _a woman being conned by a talking snake into eating an apple,_ then Eddie can get fucked by his boyfriend. It’s only fair.

He thinks Adam and Eve would probably be _proud._

Eddie is currently bent in half over his desk, grappling at anything he can reach, which happens to be the left side of the desk and his Physics homework from a few days ago. It’s crumbled and ripping beneath the strength of his grip, but Eddie doesn’t notice because Richie leans over and moulds his chest to Eddie’s back, changing the angle a bit and nailing his prostate head-on.

It took Eddie _months_  to work up to anal sex. Their first time had to be prepped for intensely and talked about for days before they actually went through with it. When they finally did it, it was in Richie’s bed when his parents were out on their weekly date, Maggie’s candles swiped from her room where she has to keep them now, some perfectly curated mixtape playing in the background that Eddie wasn’t paying any attention to. It was Eddie and Richie facing each other, long gazes and passionate kisses, constantly checking in with each other to see if they were okay, and so much fucking unspoken love it was stifling. They’ve had to work up to what they’re doing now, too, the fast and hard fucking, more due to Eddie’s hang-ups than Richie’s. Richie knows that Eddie isn’t delicate. He knows Eddie isn’t going to break if they get a little rough. Eddie still has yet to believe this.

But with Richie’s nails scratching down his shoulder blade and him sucking an intense hickey into the ball of Eddie’s shoulder, he thinks maybe he doesn’t need to believe it as long as other people do. Sometimes, Richie treats him like fine china, like porcelain, like something perfect and treasured. Other times, he bends him over and fucks him raw until he can’t walk. Eddie has found he loves them both, but he _especially_  loves this. It’s so fucking hot, Eddie can hardly stand it.

Because he’s 17 and isn’t used to sex in general, he has taken to muttering the Serenity Prayer under his breath to try to focus on not orgasming too quickly, _God please grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,_  because it’s something he’s so familiar with.It should be upsetting, a reminder of his upbringing, but that prayer has always been a comfort to Eddie more than anything else he took from the church. Not even his mother can take prayer from him. And Eddie is trying to recite it now, all choppy and broken, but when Richie starts stripping his cock hard and fast, the way they’ve learned over the past few months he likes when he’s close, he lets out a high whine and his mind goes completely blank. It’s relentless. Bruising. Enough to feel for days. God, Eddie loves it.

“C’mon, Eds,” Richie grunts from behind him, breath hot against his neck, nails digging crescent moons into the skin of Eddie’s hips where he’s gripping him. “I know how you like it when I keep fucking you after you’ve already come. So go on, baby, I got you. God, you’re so fucking sexy, all bent over like this. You’re such a good boy for daddy.”

“Shut the fuck _up,”_ Eddie groans, dropping his head onto the desk with a loud _thunk_ as he comes hard into Richie’s hand, mouth dropped open as noises continue to be punched out of him by the relentless snap of Richie’s hips as he chases his own orgasm. He’s more than a little furious that Richie keeps _insisting_ on calling himself daddy when they fuck, mostly because Eddie actually _likes_ it, which Richie knows and uses to his advantage. The slick motherfucker.

Richie doesn’t let up, and Eddie doesn’t want him to, continuing to fuck into him through the overstimulation and shaking legs. His thrusts begin to get erratic and Eddie reaches back to tug sharply on Richie’s hair. “ _D_ _addy,”_ Eddie whines, just to be an asshole, but it works like a charm just like it did with Eddie when Richie said it.

Richie gasps sharply and comes, biting down hard enough on Eddie’s shoulder to leave marks, and that’s the moment when Eddie hears, _“Eddie Bear, I’m home! Come into the living room please!”_ in his mother’s cloying tone. Eddie’s eyes widen and they both go still and silent, Richie continuing to pulse cum into the condom buried deep inside of Eddie, teeth still lodged into the skin of his back.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Eddie hisses, and they’re suddenly springing apart as best they can. Richie slips out of Eddie as delicately as possible, but it still makes them both hiss loudly, especially considering Richie barely stopped coming long enough to do so. Once he’s fully unseated, Eddie shucks his shirt back down, having been too frantic in their desperation to remove it, and yanks up his plaid pajama pants that had been wrapping knots around his ankles. Eddie sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth at the drag of the thick cotton against his sensitive dick.

When he turns, Richie has already discarded the condom, wiped off his hand, and pulled on his boxers, now searching blindly for his shirt. It shouldn’t be _this_ hard to find; the thing is hot pink for fuck’s sake. Eddie rushes over to shove Richie’s discarded glasses onto his face and Richie gives him a quick, silent peck on the cheek in gratitude. Eddie spots Richie’s black jeans on top of Eddie’s pile of clean laundry (ugh, _Richie)_ and throws them to him as they both continue to search for the shirt. They manage to procure his jacket but not the shirt, and Richie certainly can’t go outside in 30 degree weather with nothing underneath his coat. Eddie won’t be responsible for taking care of very a preventable frostbite.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he mumbles. When Sonia calls for him again, Eddie throws Richie the first thing he sees instead—an oversized cream-colored sweater that Eddie doesn’t remember who its rightful owner is—and forces him towards the window as he shucks it on. It’s a little tight despite the fact that it’s huge on Eddie, but it’ll do.

“Coming, mommy!” he calls over his shoulder. Richie throws him a wink.

“I think you’ve already done that,” he murmurs, snickering and squeezing Eddie’s ass as he walks past. Eddie glares, shoves his coat at him and mouths, _Q_ _uietly, douchebag,_ glad they hadn’t shut the window to let the stench of sex not permeate the room. _Go._

Richie has one foot swung out the window already when he leans back in with his lips puckered. He looks disheveled as all hell, sex hair unmistakable, and Eddie reaches up to mat down his own in response to the image. “Kiss?” Richie requests politely, and Eddie sighs harshly, barely supressing a grin as he presses their lips together quickly before shoving him again. Richie falls out the window and onto the packed snow. Eddie stifles his cackles into the palm of his hand, which makes Richie smile and say, “Fuck ya later!” in a voice too low for Sonia to hear from the living room. Even still, it makes Eddie’s blood pressure spike as he shoos Richie away and towards his car parked a block over.

“I’ll be right there!” Eddie calls out, removing the towels from underneath the door as quietly as he can and running into the living room.

“Edward! There’s no need to run, you’ll trip and fall and break your ankle!” Sonia admonishes from her place in the chair. _As_ the chair might be more appropriate, as her Sunday dress looks more like upholstery than anything else. Eddie glances at the clock on the wall and sees it’s only 11:45 A.M. She usually arrives home well after 1 after socializing with the congregation which must’ve been how Eddie thought he miscalculated his time left with Richie, and Eddie begins nervously picking at his skin. It seems Sonia hasn’t noticed anything odd about Eddie’s flushed cheeks (or the moans she luckily seems to have missed) due to glaring at the dark television set with intense focus.

“Mommy, why are you home so early?”

“Oh, I can’t go back to that place anymore, Edward. It’s heinous,” she laments, finally flipping on the television instead of just staring at the void of the empty screen. Eddie doesn’t even notice the white noise, forever droning on in the background of his life.

“Why not?”

“Well, you remember Wendy, right? The organ player?” Eddie nods, vaguely remembering that name. “Well, I found out today that she’s… she’s a _lesbian,_ Edward.” Sonia whispers the word, like God will somehow hear her and give her a Sin Point for daring to say it out loud. Eddie scratches at the hickey Richie left behind on his collarbone through his shirt in an attempt to ground himself.

“I remember that, mama. We’ve all known that for years.”

“Yes, yes, and that was all fine as long as she didn’t _shove it in everybody’s faces._ But today, she brought her… her… _partner_ or what have you. Sat her in the very front row! In God’s house! It was appalling.”

“But mom…” Eddie tries, and his voice sounds wrecked with the thickness of his oncoming tears already, but he clears his throat to try to stave them. Sonia doesn’t notice, still fuming and angrily flipping channels without really looking to see what’s on. “I thought Pastor Caroline said—”

“Pastor Caroline is a hack,” Sonia spits. “After what happened at St. Peters, I went to the Methodist Church in town because it was nearby and because I liked that their pastor is a woman. I mean, I’m a feminist and all, but there are some lines you just don’t cross. It’s not _appropriate._ I used to like Pastor Caroline all well and good before, but when I went up to her today during Coffee Hour and tried to talk some sense into the woman, it was just… Ugh! She said she’s known the whole time! Tried to cite Scripture at me and everything. The nerve of that woman! Like I haven’t been in Bible School since before she was a twinkle in her mother’s eye. I know what God said about homosexuals. Abominations, all of them.”

Eddie’s breath catches in his throat, and his fingers twitch mindlessly over the waistband of his jeans, fanny pack long gone but the urge still there to take a puff of his inhaler, even after all the years he’s spent conditioning himself not to need its psychosomatic effects. It took him so long to wean himself off of the thing entirely—almost a full year—but every now and then, when the anxiety becomes too much to bear, he’s hit with a wave of wanting.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Eddie asks, and then prays silently. He hasn’t really prayed since Richie’s accident—at least, not like this. Not about somebody else. But really, that prayer was selfish, and so is this one. He needed Richie by his side and he needs his mother’s approval. It seems that those two cannot exist in the same breath, though.

“I’m not going back, of course. You know as well as I do that... _same-sex relationships..._ are not appropriate or holy. There’s a few different churches in Bangor I’m sure we can try. Maybe the Protestant one will have better values.”

_God please grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change..._

“Mom,” Eddie begs, and his voice sounds far more vulnerable than he ever likes to be in front of his mother, “does it really matter that much? If Wendy is seeing a woman? She’s still a wonderful organ player. I remember.”

And Eddie does. Wendy’s music filled the cathedral to the brim with life and made Eddie feel so peaceful. Her music was the best part about going to church. She was always so kind to him when they began going there after he and his mother stopped attending the Catholic service at the church on Oak, St. Peter’s. He went to the Derry Methodist Church for six more years after reasoning with himself that all Christian churches are the same. The only reason they stopped going to St. Peter’s in the first place was not the church’s strictness to Scripture, but because the Priest wouldn’t allow Eddie to take communion at his own father’s funeral because he had yet to receive First Holy Communion. Sonia had thrown a royal fit in front of everybody and gave Eddie her own wafer and wine instead. That is Eddie’s favorite memory of his mother. She’d seemed so heroic, standing up for what she believed in and facing down a whole congregation full of people who disagreed.

And she’s doing virtually the same thing now, standing up for what she believes in. However, this time, Eddie can’t find anything heroic about her.

“I don’t care,” Sonia stews. “She should’ve thought before she brought her dyke-friend to church.”

“Ma,” Eddie gasps, “that’s a horrible word.”

_The courage to change the things I can..._

“What?” Sonia mutes the TV and turns to Eddie, tilting her head in a way that should look empathetic but only results in making Eddie’s skin crawl. “Edward, what’s gotten into you lately? You haven’t been… tempted… have you? I hear what people say, you know. I tell them I know my son better than that—he wouldn’t be queer under my roof.”

And God, Eddie wants to cry. He wants to kick and scream and run as far away from his mother, from this stupid devil town as he possibly can get.

But he knows coming out would only result in his own anguish. Heartache. More entrapment and control than he already faces. He doesn’t want that. He wants to continue to have the upperhand with his mother while he’s forced to live with her.

So he’ll keep sneaking around with Richie and shove towels under the door even when his mother isn’t home because Sonia Kaspbrak is just another shining example of the world he lives in. The world is not like Maggie and Wentworth Tozier. They’re not like Stanley and Ben and Beverly. They’re not supportive. They don’t care. Some would want to see him burn for the ache he still feels in his ass after being fucked by his very male partner within an inch of his life only 15 minutes prior. Richie’s bite mark pulses beneath his shirt, his own proud reminder of how hot they truly find each other.

So Eddie plasters on a smile and shakes his head. Masks on. The curtain rises. Eddie is here to perform. There’s a script to read, and Eddie’s not one to disobey orders from the director.

“No, Mommy. Of course not. You raised me better than that.”

_And the wisdom to know the difference._

Sonia smiles and pats Eddie’s hand in a way that can only be read as condescending. “Good boy,” she murmurs, and the words send a dark chill down Eddie’s spine in a way they never do with Richie. To his mother, those words are a leash she chains Eddie to her own wrist with. To Richie, they’re nothing but praise.

And when his mother points at her cheek and Eddie leans down to press a barely-there kiss to her wrinkled skin, he wonders if the mask ever truly comes off. To Sonia, Eddie is a good, little Christian boy. Eddie wears that mask and many others with her because admitting the truth, admitting to his mother that all of the rumors spread about him are _true_  is not something he will ever be able to do. It’s less about disappointing her and more about the fusion of the masks he wears to his skin. Around his mother, he’s straight as an arrow. The ache in his bones from Richie plowing into him less than a half hour ago doesn’t even register. He’s so practiced in the art of manipulation after years of needing to do so with his mother just to survive that he doesn’t even notice when he puts that skill to use anymore. Being his mother’s son has made him into a person he would’ve been disgusted with years prior.

But this is who he is now. Eddie Kaspbrak, Man of a Thousand Masks. Richie has Voices and Eddie has Masks. (Eddie knows deep in the cell of his heart that the Voices are nothing but Masks, but there’s something comforting to Eddie in knowing that the ways in which they hide themselves is different.) There’s no way for Eddie to remove them, and at this point, they’ve become such a comfort to him that he doesn’t even want to. Sonia taught him unknowingly that when he’s lying, he’s safe. It’s not fair, but it’s the way things are, and after asking Him to for years, Eddie hopes that one day, God will finally grant him the wisdom to accept the difference between what is right and what is fair.


	14. March, 1994

_When at first I learned to speak_  
_I used all my words to fight_  
_With him and her and you and me_  
_Ah, but it’s such a waste of time_  
_Three words that became hard to say:  
__I and love and you_

—I And Love And You, The Avett Brothers

 

The scene is currently being built. The characters are in place, the set is almost complete, the plot’s conclusion has already been decided, but nobody knows their lines.

It’s been a shitshow the past few weeks, ever since college acceptance letters began rolling in. Richie’s been going to party after party. Every weekend, he drags at least one member of the Losers’ Club to some run-down house on the outskirts of Derry to smoke and drink. Eddie went to the first one simply because he doesn’t like being without Richie, but after he got a splinter in his calf from leaning against the wall and had a huge panic attack in the bathroom about _tetanus, tetanus, tetanus,_ and Richie had to talk him down while removing it with shaking hands due to the alcohol in his system, he decided to let other people go with Richie in his place from then on.

Eddie’s known he isn’t good enough for Richie for a long time, but that night was proof of it. Richie deserves someone who can keep up with him, not hold him back and force them to go home after an hour at a party. In a big city where he can party 24/7, Richie would grow to resent him—Eddie is sure of it. Beverly’s been going out with him instead a lot, and Eddie’s always thought Richie deserves someone more like her. It isn't that he's jealous specifically of Beverly; she's like family to them both and they both know there’s nothing romantic or sexual between them. A few weird, sloppy makeout sessions at age 14 proved that indisputably for them. But somebody who’s cool under pressure, calm and understanding and kind. Somebody who doesn’t fly off the handle at the smallest of things. Somebody with less baggage. Somebody _else._

It’s a Friday night and Eddie is wallowing in bed while Richie is out at a party. He’s been trying not to worry, but it’s hard. He knows Richie can look out for himself, but the problem with Eddie is that he has the innate urge to take care of people. Sometimes it’s dysfunctional, the way his mother has treated him, because that’s the only love he’s ever known. Sometimes he wants to follow the people he loves around everywhere they go just to make sure they never get hurt. But he’s been with Richie for over a year now, and the longer they last, the more that urge has started to change and morph into something else—something his mother would faint at if she found out about for more reasons than just their gender makeup. Something almost healthy.

It’s 1:23 A.M. when Eddie hears an odd shuffling at his window. He’s been lying awake for hours in the darkness of his room, glowing pink with the light from the lava lamp, casting everything into slow-moving shadows that, after years of seeing, he finally feels comfortable with. With Eddie, there’s no immediate brush-off that it could be the old magnolia tree’s branches scraping against his window; he’s always on alert for danger, and he immediately scrambles out of bed and looks towards the window beside his bed. He finds Richie smiling sheepishly and waving on the other side. He points to the locked window and Eddie immediately moves into action. Richie told him at school earlier that he’d see him tomorrow for their weekly Saturday sleepover, so he knows something is wrong before he even takes a moment to analyze the situation.

He anxiously stuffs the towel he keeps under his bed beneath the crack below his door to muffle their sounds and works on unlocking and opening the window so he can help Richie come inside quietly. Once Richie is fully within the room, he takes one look at Eddie and gathers him in a tight hug that punches the air out of them both. Eddie winds his arms around Richie’s middle and holds on just as tightly because if the dark circles under Richie’s eyes and the wild state of his hair mean anything, this is not just a random drop-by.

“Hi, Eds,” Richie whispers into Eddie’s hair, and it's only then that Eddie realizes that Richie is shaking.

“Hi, Rich,” he responds, kissing his collarbone chastely. _You give nicknames to the people you love._

They hold on for a little while longer before Richie pulls away to sit at the edge of the bed, pulling Eddie with him to sit on his lap. He can’t tell if Richie’s eyes are red-rimmed from crying, marijuana or if it’s simply the pink lamp playing tricks on him. He doesn’t smell any illegal substances on him, but either way, Eddie cups his cheek and lightly strokes beneath his eye with his thumb because it seems like Richie needs some affection right now, affection Eddie is always more than willing to give so long as they're by themselves. Richie smiles slightly but doesn’t make eye contact, choosing instead to stare at his own hands twisted where they rest atop Eddie’s thighs.

Eddie doesn’t wonder if Richie will tell him what’s wrong. He doesn’t want to push because he knows he will eventually. Eddie isn’t a patient person by nature, but he feels like he could wait an eternity for Richie. The thought has stopped scaring him after years of having it. After a few more minutes of Eddie delicately touching his face and playing with his hair, Richie hooks his hand over Eddie’s wrist that’s laying flat against his neck and finally speaks, just as Eddie knew he would.

“I almost did something really, really stupid.” His words are slow, deliberate and careful.

“Nothing new,” Eddie quips with a fond smile. Richie sticks his tongue out at him playfully, but the somberness returns in an instant.

“Yeah, but this was, like… monumentally stupid.”

“How stupid, Rich?”

“There, uh… There was coke. At the party, there was coke.” Eddie’s heart stutters to a stop in his chest, as do his hands where they lay frozen against Richie’s skin. At the feeling of Eddie tensing up under his hand, Richie quickly removes it.

“You mean cocaine,” Eddie says. It isn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Richie whispers harshly, “I do.” The silence feels like a tangible force in the room as Richie picks at the mismatched fingerless gloves he’s wearing that never do anything to keep his hands warm. “You probably hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Richie,” Eddie responds softly. _I could never hate you,_ he would say if he weren’t so afraid of himself.

“You should,” Richie chuckles darkly. “You should forget all about me.” A chill runs down Eddie’s spine at the thought of ever forgetting about Richie. God, what a horrible thought. Richie is his best friend, always has been, and living his life without him seems almost pointless.

“I don't want to,” Eddie insists quietly, almost childishly, voice wavering with intensity. “I could never forget about you.”

“I wish you would.”

Eddie gulps audibly. “Tell me you don't mean that.”

“Of course I don't mean that, Eddie,” Richie sighs. “I'm too selfish to ever truly want to lose you.”

“What makes that selfish?”

“Because you're the best thing about my life. You're the reason I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere right now,” Richie says, speaking with his hands as much as his words.

“Wh—… Why is that?” Eddie asks slowly, shaking with nerves.

“You give me someone to come home to,” Richie explains, shrugging slightly, voice softer than it's been since he came through the window. Eddie sighs, shaking the nerves out and placing his hand gently over Richie's heart.

“Always,” says Eddie, resolute and unmoving in this promise. He hopes it sounds a lot like _I love you._ Richie smiles slightly without looking up and reaches to cover the back of Eddie’s hand briefly with his own. The sight is beautiful in a way Eddie can’t describe, with Richie’s curls falling over his eyes and obscuring most of his face, their hands different sizes and skin different shades and, fuck, they really do make a gorgeous pair. Richie hasn’t ever been wrong when he brags about that. But before Eddie can bottle the sight as much as he wants to, Richie is dropping his hand back in his lap to pick at his fingers.

“You… Did you do it? The cocaine?” Eddie implores, stroking Richie's collarbone gently with his thumb.

“No. But fuck, I wanted to. I wanted to so fucking bad. I really, truly almost did. I mean, I was right there, it was all lined up and everything... You should hate me. I mean, _I_ hate me.” Eddie makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, clutching at the collar of Richie’s shirt instinctively, trying to tug him closer. Richie barely budges, and begins angrily ripping at one of his cuticles.

“Please don't say things like that, angel,” he begs, the softest pet name he has in his arsenal falling off his tongue so easily that he doesn't even notice it. Richie’s stormy expression doesn’t change, but he stops picking at his skin before he makes himself bleed.

“Why not? It's true. I’m just some weak, shitty kid who can’t keep it together long enough when his friends aren’t around for one fucking night to not be tempted to completely fuck up his own life.”

“You’re not weak and you’re not shitty.” It’s quiet then as Eddie watches Richie’s expression grow darker, more sour, like he’s finally gotten a taste of himself and has never had anything more rancid on his tongue. “Why did you want to? You’ve got so much going for you, you don’t need that shit.”

“Because I feel so hollow all the time,” Richie laughs, and even the sound echoes that sentiment. “Because it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What doesn’t matter?” Eddie asks, holding his breath, remembering what the clown told his boy when they were 13. _You can’t even kill yourself, Trashmouth._  Eddie allows himself a brief moment of indescribable rage that Pennywise would ever torture Richie about something so personal, so upsetting. He doesn’t care about the leper, he doesn’t care about the fear Pennywise made him feel about his own sexuality. What he _does_  care about is Richie, and that asshole clown made him feel like he was nothing, _mocked_  him for his own suicidality. Eddie makes a quiet promise to himself that if he ever gets his hands on that son of a bitch again, he will rip it limb from rotting limb just for that one comment that has lodged itself in both their brains, and surely Beverly’s as well. Eddie has seen the way Beverly has to tell herself to soften around Richie sometimes, reminding herself that none of them will ever hurt her and don’t mean the shitty comments they spout sometimes, least of all Richie.

“Anything. Nothing. I can’t seem to make anything matter.” Eddie wants to scream, cry, shake Richie into loving himself, but instead he simply nods. He knows getting angry wouldn’t solve anything and that Richie can’t help his bone-deep self-hatred. He knows he can’t fix it. But God, he wants to. Perhaps just as badly as Richie aches to escape himself.

“Oh, yeah, angel? Nothing? Nothing at all?” He repeats the name purposefully this time, and he's glad he does because it makes Richie shrug and duck his head, smiling bashfully.

Eddie removes his arm from where it’s hooked around Richie’s shoulders and gently touches his hands that have started picking at the skin around his fingernails and ripping at his cuticles once again. Eddie coaxes them apart and lightly runs the pads of his fingers up and down the sensitive skin of Richie’s own where they're exposed. Eddie pulls off his gloves with precision and care, wrapping them up in each other and tossing them on his bedside table. He traces the lines in Richie’s cracked, dry palms for a little while before lacing their fingers together. Eventually, Richie gives their hands a half-smile, and shrugs again.

“I mean… I guess not _nothing_.” Richie rests his head in the crook of Eddie’s shoulder and heaves out a huge sigh.

“Why _didn’t_ you do it, Rich? Why’d you come here instead?”

“Because I… I just kept seeing your face, you know? If you found out I did it. You’d be so disappointed in me. You're the only thing that really matters to me—you and the rest of the gang. I don't wanna fuck that up.”

“I mean, I won’t lie to you, Rich, I’d be really hurt, yeah, you’re right,” Eddie says, his lips dragging where they’re pressed against Richie’s forehead. “I care about you far too much to just stand by and watch you throw yourself down a hole that dark and that deep.”

“I don’t ever want to hurt you,” Richie whispers, and he sounds so broken that Eddie feels tears spring to his eyes.

“But babe, you _didn’t._ I’m so fucking proud of you, you know that?” Richie snorts disbelievingly but Eddie shakes his head insistently. “No, Rich, you did the right thing. You left that stupid party and you came to me. That’s fucking… You’re so… God, babe, I’m just so glad you trust me like that. I’ll gladly be the only thing that matters to you so long as it keeps you safe.”

Eddie takes the hand that isn’t still tightly clutching Richie’s and gently strokes his cheek, down his neck, over his shoulder and down his back. Richie lets out a soft, affected sigh at both the words and the physical contact. Eddie feels almost like a cartographer of the planes of Richie’s body, an explorer of uncharted land. Other people than him have touched Richie, but Eddie knows none have done so quite like this, hands covered in honey and sugar as they try to lace the sweetness back into his bones.

Eddie gently pushes Richie’s impractical, ripped jean jacket covered in silly pins off his shoulders, puts it at the foot of the bed and urges Richie to lay back. Richie collapses onto the mattress from sheer exhaustion, and when Eddie gets up, he curls in on himself protectively, like he's trying to preserve whatever softness he has left. Eddie clicks his tongue and mirrors Richie’s position so that they’re facing one another, equally as protective over Richie's most tender parts—maybe even more so. 

He explores the space between their bodies like an astronaut charts the cosmos. The freckles on Richie’s shoulders have faded without the summer sun to warm them, but the ones across the bridge of his nose never completely go away. He has several more prominent ones dotted sporadically across his body, and at this point in their relationship, Eddie could find them all with his eyes closed. Eddie reaches out to touch whatever ones are visible, his fingers ghosting reverently over the four in a line going down across his collarbone, the one on the edge of his left cheekbone, lets his hand drift down to the ones on his arms and his favorite, the faint one on his middle finger. Each freckle is as distant and distinct as stars. He looks celestial, eyelids fluttering with exhaustion and vulnerability at Eddie’s tender touches. Eddie removes Richie’s glasses and folds them to put them on the nightstand next to his gloves before returning to trace the spaces between his freckles. Richie’s eyelids finally fall shut and his breath hitches as if he’s trying to keep himself from crying.

Neither of them have ever been very good at asking to be touched. Richie is always reaching out to Eddie, one hand perpetually outstretched. Eddie has a harder time with this given his history of mistrusting his mother’s hands. But he’s known Richie almost all his life, they've curled around each other over the years and grown up and towards the sun together like live vines, and he thinks maybe Richie is always reaching out to others because he’s begging for them to reach for him back. That thought always settles the fear that lives in Eddie that Richie might someday treat him the way his mother does and use his love for him against him.

Richie’s hand settles on Eddie’s narrow hip, his thumb fitting perfectly in the gap between his hipbone and the soft curve of his stomach caused by his mother’s insistence on feeding him junk food and laying sideways. Different parts of him are more full than others and he’s never enjoyed looking at himself in a mirror because of this, body all uneven, sharp lines and odd curves somehow existing at once. Richie isn't like that with long, clean lines and delicious, taut muscle. Richie has never thought this way about Eddie though, sucks love bites into his stomach if Eddie speaks ill of his appearance. Worships him. Eddie secretly craves it, and will worship Richie right back, sometimes when he's depressed or seems particularly desperate, sometimes unprompted, just because he wants to. Richie is Eddie's place of worship more than any church his mother ever dragged him to could be, but he wishes Richie would worship himself, too.

“Talk to me, angel,” Eddie whispers, feeling just as holy as the name on his lips while he watches his touch slowly melt the stress out of Richie’s features and leave something much more neutral in its wake.

“I usually have a whole crapload of bullshit ready to spew without even being asked, but I’ve got nothin’ right now. Sorry, darlin’,” Richie responds, slow like molasses from the pads of Eddie’s fingers still dragging across his skin.

“Richie, you can talk yourself in or out of whatever you want if you talk for long enough.” Richie snorts, but it’s filled with more good humor than before. “Why cocaine? Why not just stick to marijuana?”

Richie shrugs. “Weed for me is just something I do with Beverly or at parties. I never really smoke by myself, it’s not that great. Just for loosening up. It never does much for me anyway, the only shit we can afford is pretty weak and we’re afraid to go any harder than we do in case it’s laced with something. Well, Beverly’s afraid to, so I get whatever she wants. I really couldn’t care less what’s in the shit I’m smoking as long as it gets me high.” Richie’s shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to face the look of worry dawning across Eddie’s features. They both know that smoking weed laced with other drugs could get him killed. Eddie supposes that’s part of the point. “But the idea of cocaine, uh, of anything harder really… it’s so fucking alluring. I could just… float away.” Eddie winces at his wording, _we all float down here,_ but Richie doesn’t notice with his eyes closed. “God, it’d be so nice to leave myself for a while.”

“I think I'd miss you too much,” Eddie says, aiming for playful but landing at painfully honest instead.

“Yeah… I’d miss you, too…” Richie marvels, opening his eyes to search Eddie’s face for something. Eddie doesn’t know if he finds it or not considering Richie’s expression doesn’t change. “I don’t ever wanna leave you even if I always wanna leave myself.”

“You… You still feel that way? Like you did when we were fighting the clown?” Eddie asks carefully. _You can't even kill yourself, Trashmouth._ Those words have run themselves ragged in Eddie’s head since Richie told him about them. He still thinks about them almost as much as he’s sure Richie does.

“I mean, yeah,” Richie shrugs as if his words were something casual. He cracks his eyes open, but keeps them cast downward. “I've felt that way since I was like 11, baby. Probably isn't gonna change. Just like some of the things you felt when you were 11 won't change. The anxiety, you know? S’still there.” Richie taps Eddie’s temple before following his finger down the planes of Eddie’s face like Eddie had done before, just touching because he knows he can.

“I know it doesn't work that way, but... I thought that maybe being together would fix us. I know that sounds stupid but—”

“It doesn't,” Richie interrupts before Eddie can go down a destructive path. “It doesn't sound stupid, even though it probably is stupid. I thought so, too. I think the world feeds us dumb shit like that from straight couples in movies. If you're not alone, you're cured; if you are alone, you’re cursed. Doesn't work like that though. But God, I wish it did. We’d never be lonely again.”

Eddie sighs and pushes in closer so that his head is tucked underneath Richie’s chin. “Can we pretend it does?”

Richie chuckles, his fingers dancing along the knobs of Eddie’s spine. “Absolutely, darling. Don’t have to ask me twice—I already do all the fuckin’ time.”

Eddie smiles against Richie’s skin and nods, hitching his leg up in between Richie’s thighs and moulding himself against him so that there’s no space left between their bodies. Richie hums happily, wrapping his unoccupied arm around Eddie waist to tug him even closer. Eddie remembers their conversation about how cuddling for Richie is far more intimate than sex, and he giggles a bit involuntarily at the realization, the sound muffled against Richie’s throat.

“Ooh, so sweet,” Richie coos quietly, kissing Eddie’s forehead. Eddie squirms a bit, delighted, biting his lip so he doesn’t giggle again.

“I took your cuddle-virginity,” Eddie says, and Richie barks out a laugh that Eddie has to quiet while trying to keep from laughing himself.

“God, you’re the cutest person that’s ever fucking existed, I swear to God. Truly the Miss America of cute boys.”

Eddie shakes his head with a pout. “Not cute.”

“Oh, no? What are you then?” Richie smirks.

“Dunno. Not cute though.”

“Sure, Eds, of course not,” Richie says easily. Eddie glares. “God, fine, I take it back. You’re ugly as the night is dark. You’re hideous and I never want to look at you ever again. In fact, I think _I’m_  the cutest boy in the world.” Richie lifts his chin proudly and Eddie smothers his laugh behind his hand. “Bow to me, Kaspbrak. You’re dating Cuteness Royalty.”

“Well, what does that make me?” Eddie demands, trying to hold onto to some fake obstinance.

“Cute Adjacent. You merely married into the Cuteness Family.”

“I wouldn’t marry you if the world were ending,” Eddie sniffs.

A small smile appears on Richie’s face that quickly morphs into a smirk as he looks down at Eddie with his head tilted back. “Liar.”

Eddie grumbles nonsensically, not exactly denying the claim as he settles back into Richie, heart racing just a bit from the closeness that they both love so much. It’s silent for a while, and Eddie can almost hear the gears turning in Richie’s head as he moves onto another topic. Eddie knows it’s only a matter of time before he says whatever’s on his mind.

“I still can't believe Bev got into FIT,” Richie murmurs after a while, laughing disbelievingly and shaking his head. _Bingo,_ Eddie thinks with a small smile.

“Me neither,” he whispers. He pokes Richie’s stomach where his hand is resting and Richie giggles, rearing backwards briefly before pulling himself even closer than he was before. “And what about you, Mr. UCLA?”

“I know,” Richie chuckles, and suddenly whatever was left of his bad mood is gone. “Los Angeles. Jesus.”

“Gonna be a star,” Eddie mumbles, tucking his head underneath Richie’s chin snugly. “Leave us all in the dust.”

“I'll never forget my roots. You keep me humble,” Richie says loftily.

“Better not.”

“But… Can I tell you something?”

“Sure, babe.”

“I don't… I don't even really wanna go to college,” Richie sighs. Eddie wants to pick his head back up to look at him, but he knows that might make Richie close back up, so he stays put. “I'm just not cut out for school. Like, I'm good at it and everything I guess. But it’s all accidental. I don’t really mean to get good grades, I’m just too smart for this stupid town. I hate school. It's soul-sucking for me. I just wanna fuck around and do Voices and make people laugh. Maybe get a puppet.”

“Do _not_  get a puppet,” Eddie says, head shooting up and eyes widening, which makes Richie laugh. “I fucking _hate_  puppets, they’re so freaky.”

“Even _my_ puppet?” Richie pouts.

“ _Especially_  your puppet.” Richie bursts out laughing again. “Plus, you'll be getting a degree in theatre, right?” Richie nods. “Okay. So add that to being in the heart of LA and you’re golden. It’s the City of Angels, so you're made to be there anyway." Richie giggles a bit bashfully, and Eddie smiles at the sound. "Way more opportunities to make people laugh there than in Maine.”

“Yeah… Maybe…” He looks over at Eddie and smiles softly. “But I sure do like the people I make laugh out here.”

“I'm sure they feel the same,” Eddie says back, brushing his nose against Richie’s. His voice is so warm it almost erases all the coldness in the air and the reason Richie came through the window in the first place.

Almost.

Eddie doesn’t want to fucking _lose_  this, dammit. He knows that's selfish as hell and he wants to feel unconflicted about letting Richie go, but he can’t. He wants to be with Richie forever, or however long forever can last, and it feels unfair that he can’t allow himself to follow Richie where he asks him to go. He wants to always be there for Richie to come home to, and he wants to be able to come home to Richie. To take care of each other like they're doing right now. For as long as he can remember, Eddie has never quite understood the meaning of the word home. He’s been devising his own definitions and trying to find it, but he’s always come up empty.

He thinks he could find a home with Richie, and the fact that he can’t allow himself to even find out is devastating.

They're quiet for awhile, and Richie doesn't know how sour Eddie's mood has gotten because he can't see him, so he makes a pained, shocked noise when Eddie sniffs harshly.

“Babe, no, what's wrong?” Richie worries, pulling back so he can try to see Eddie, even through his fuzzy vision.

“A lot of things,” Eddie laughs wryly, the sound coming out wet and garbled through his tears. He wipes at his own face even though no tears have fallen yet. “You’re going to UCLA in the fall and are gonna be some crazy-ass protestor about gun control or gay rights or animal cruelty or demilitarization or police brutality or something of _meaning._ Your passion is endless. It astounds me.”

Richie smiles briefly, almost like he can't help it. Eddie so rarely compliments people this genuinely and directly, so Richie always takes the scraps of what he's given greedily, even if he's heartbroken while doing so. Eddie wishes he could give Richie everything he deserves—love, joy, the whole fucking world. Whatever he wants. No more begging for scraps of affection, the starving dog of Richie’s heart always satiated and well-fed. But Eddie can’t do that. The purgatory between _wanting_  and _having_  is Eddie’s only true home, and he has no idea how to leave it.

“Beverly got into fucking FIT, Rich. She told me she wants to make cool clothes that are are made from recycled fabrics so poor people can afford them and still look nice. She’s gonna have her name on labels and you’re gonna be a famous actor or comedian or even a musician. Whatever you want, really, I know you can get. You’ll be a star no matter what. Stan’s so good with numbers, and we’ve all seen how incredible Ben is at building. Mike’s gonna be mayor of the world one day, Bill’s short stories are so well-received in the school paper that I just _know_ he’s gonna be some world-famous writer or something. And what about me? What talents do I have? What goals? What dreams? I’m nothing, Richie. I’m…”

Eddie trails off to suck in a gasping breath as he flips onto his back. He’s so anxious that the whole room is spinning. The pink tinge on everything from the lava lamp that has always been comforting is suddenly making him nauseous. Richie is speaking, certainly trying to calm him down, but Eddie can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in his ears he can’t shake and bright lights in his eyes.

“Eddie?” Richie’s voice is so soft and scared that Eddie immediately tunes back in. He turns his head from where he’d been staring at the ceiling and finds Richie’s face twisted in concern, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Are you still here?”

“Yeah,” Eddie croaks out. Richie lets out a relieved breath at the sound of his voice. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, sunshine,” Richie murmurs, covering Eddie’s shaking hand that’s clutching the blankets beneath them tightly with his own. Eddie’s grip immediately loosens at the touch and he flips his hand to lace their fingers together. “But Eddie baby, you know that’s not true, right? You’re so far from nothing. You’re all I’ve ever wanted. You’re so smart and caring and intuitive… You could lead us all anywhere with your eyes closed and your legs bound. That big ol’ heart of yours is part-compass, part-flashlight, and it’ll take you anywhere you wanna go. You’ve got more direction than anyone else I’ve ever met—your compass-heart is just pointing in too many directions at once.”

Eddie sighs and turns back to Richie, their hands still clasped on the bed between them. He’s unable to make eye contact, so he simply stares at Richie’s throat instead. “I just want to be happy,” he admits quietly. “Wherever I go, whatever I do, that’s all I want.”

“And you will be, Eds,” Richie promises.

“I am right now,” Eddie mumbles, an admission too real to ever be told in the light. Richie smiles softly and smooths his hair back.

“Then why don’t you come with me to LA, sweetheart?”

Eddie knows Richie is pulling out the big guns with that name. Eddie has always been willing to give Richie whatever he wants when he uses those types of names, so gentle and undemanding in his requests. He only uses them when he wants something bad enough. Eddie remembers the first time he used it was the first time he got Eddie off—he well and truly begged for it just to see Eddie come undone, even if Eddie never even touched him back.

He did though, without even being asked, because he wanted to. Of course he did, even if he was half-terrified the whole time. And he wants this, too—he wants Richie’s skin and his words and his thoughts and _him,_ always _him,_ for the rest of their stupid, traumatized lives. Eddie has never been able to say no to being Richie’s sweetheart, but this time, he doesn’t give in. He sighs, though much more softly than he would’ve without the name that rests gently on his skin like silk and makes him shiver slightly from the overwhelming feeling of belonging he has. _Stay on track, Kaspbrak,_ he chides internally. _He’s just blinded right now._

“You’ve gotta stop asking me to do that, baby. Please. You know my mom—”

“I don’t care about your _fucking_ mom,” Richie insists darkly, cutting him off with a voice so intense and serious that Eddie’s mouth snaps shut on his excuses. “I care about _you,_ Eddie. Whatever your mom thinks about us, or about me, or about you, it doesn’t matter. None of that bullshit does. California is so liberal, Eds. We can be whoever we want there. No more hiding. My mom and dad could help us pay for an apartment while we look for jobs. We could be _happy._ Don’t you want that?”

“Of course I do,” Eddie admits, mouth pulling at the corner into a frown. “But it doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not? Why can’t it?” Richie pleads desperately, eyes searching Eddie’s as if he’ll find the answers Eddie isn’t giving him hidden within them.

“Because there’s no escaping what It did to us, Rich!” Eddie yells before quickly lowering his voice. The intensity never wavers even when the volume does. “My arm will always be broken. There will always be scars on our palms. I’ll always be terrified of a mouth on my… my…”

“Eddie…” Richie whispers, and it’s cut up into pieces from how wrecked his voice is due to how long he’s been holding back tears. It sounds like he’s asking for something, but Eddie doesn’t have anything to give.

“Blood in the sewers forever. Fear of clowns forever. You know I’m right. No matter how far we run, It’ll still be waiting.”

“I just… Ah, shit.” Richie hangs his head in defeat. He looks like he’s hurting so much, and Eddie wishes he could hold onto his self-righteousness, but it all runs out of him like water through a sieve when his best friend really needs him. All the anger and resentment he holds onto for dear life like it'll somehow keep him alive, keep him from seeming weak, gets caught and held back for a little while, and the only thing left of him is _love_.

“Hey,” Eddie murmurs, frowning as he shuffles closer to Richie on the bed so their knees knock together. “I’m sorry, honey.” Richie immediately wraps his legs around Eddie’s once he’s close enough, winding them together—a winding wheel, maybe, turning as one and hurtling towards the same fate. Richie wants that. _Eddie_ wants that. The problem is that Eddie doesn’t know how to allow himself to have it.

“I want you to be happy, too, you know,” Richie says in a whisper. Eddie presses their foreheads together, closes his eyes, and swallows his tears.

“More than my own happiness, Rich, I want yours.” Eddie doesn’t say that he doesn’t think he will make Richie happy forever and Richie doesn’t say that he knows Eddie will. They’re silent instead, holding back almost everything to the point where, even though they’re touching, Eddie has never felt further away from anyone in his life.

He wants to say it. He knows he should. He’s thought of exactly how:  _Richie, I applied to UCLA. I got in and, if you’ll have me, I’d like to come with you._ Or maybe something more Richie’s speed like, _Got into UCLA. Can’t believe I’m gonna have to deal with your scrawny ass for another four years._ Or what Eddie has always wanted to tell him for as long as he can remember: _Let’s run away together. We can live off Cup Ramen, and learn to speak French, and make too many mistakes, and be each other’s first and last everythings. Get married, have kids together, **be**  kids together, the whole nine yards. _ _I love you, Richie. I love you so fucking much it’s stupid._

He doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything at all.

They maneuver in the darkness so Richie is holding Eddie from behind. Usually when Richie is upset, he prefers to be the one to hold Eddie—it always seemed counterintuitive to Eddie, but he thinks maybe Richie just likes keeping others safe when he can’t do so for himself. He's always trying to keep Eddie safe, but it's so much different than the way his mother does. Sonia’s love is all Eddie's ever really known of the word, more intense than anything he’s ever been able to handle. But the longer he loves Richie, the more he’s started to develop a language of love far different than the one his mother taught him. Richie likes to be touched, so Eddie touches him. Richie likes to talk, so Eddie listens. Richie wants to keep him safe, so Eddie tries his best to let him. Richie needs reassurance, so Eddie does what he can. He never feels like it's enough, though. Richie deserves so much more.

The silence stretches on after they wish each other quiet goodnights. Eddie’s eyes settle closed and his breathing slows after a while, but he’s nowhere near sleep, up with his anxiety. Richie must not be able to tell, because he starts talking to Eddie in the darkness, and the desperate words whispered hot against the back of his neck make Eddie’s whole body catch fire and his heart crawl into his throat, choking him stiff.

“I love you. I love you. I love you so fucking much, Eddie Kaspbrak. I wish you knew how much I love you. I wish you loved me, too. Fuck. Fuck, Eds, fuck, I _love_ you...”

_You give nicknames to the people you love._

Eddie doesn’t have any idea if he’s actually breathing or not. He can feel his chest moving rhythmically—he’s forcing it to—but other than that, he’s entirely numb. He can barely feel it when Richie curls even tighter around him, their entire bodies moulding together from head to toe like Richie is afraid of them ever coming apart again. He continues to mumble the same thing over and over again— _love, love, love—_ before his breathing evens out and Eddie knows for a fact that he’s asleep because the little snores are coming from behind him that always seem to occur towards the end of winter for Richie. He lets his body relax in increments; he had been so careful to keep his muscles relaxed while Richie was awake, knowing that Richie would be able to feel it under his palm if his stomach clenched, could feel the muscles in his back against his chest. Eddie allows himself to relax by clenching all of his muscles so tightly he begins shaking. It takes a long time before he releases them. He wonders if this isn’t the first night Richie has whispered these words to him while he sleeps.

Eddie isn’t afraid of Richie’s love. Eddie isn’t even afraid of himself—at least, not most of the time. No, right now, Eddie is _angry._ He's angry at his own trauma for making him cowardly, angry at his mother and the church for making him this way, angry at the world for giving him a boy too _good_ and making him fall for Eddie just so he can turn around and destroy him. Eddie stopped believing in perfection the day Georgie Denbrough died; a boy so pure and innocent and _perfect_ wasn’t allowed to exist and the universe needed to erase him to make up for it. He’d never tell Bill he thinks this, of course. He hasn’t told anybody he thinks this. But that is how it is for Eddie: perfection is not allowed to exist.

Richie Tozier is not perfect. He is so, so far from perfect. He is messy as hell and impulsive about all the wrong things and selectively honest and crude and vulgar and angry and loud and rude. He is also gentle and kind and loving beyond measure and hilarious and affectionate and understanding. He is about a million things all rolled into one person. He’s so complicated. A walking paradox.

Eddie thinks that if perfection were to exist, Richie would _at least_ be perfect for Eddie.

But therein lies the problem: Richie is perfect for Eddie, but Eddie is far from perfect for Richie. Eddie has his own set of paradoxical traits: clean to the point of anal, yet scatterbrained; nasty, yet tender; sensitive, yet trauma-hardened; naive, yet wanting. He wants for so much, it makes him think that he’ll never truly find peace. _Want nothing, have everything._ Bill used to say that—before. Maybe he heard it in a book or a movie. Either way, Bill doesn’t say that anymore, and life is not a book or a movie despite Eddie’s best efforts to convince himself it is, so he has stopped believing in that advice.

Eddie believes Richie; he believes that Richie truly loves him. Richie has always had so much fucking love inside of him that he sometimes seems like he wants to crack open his own ribcage, dig his hands inside himself to remove some of it by force so he can give it out to his friends like party favors. It’s like his heart is too big for his body and has to spill out his mouth sometimes for him to even survive. Richie loves him in that huge, larger-than-life way that Richie does and feels everything, and Eddie realizes now more than ever that he never deserved Richie at all. Not if Richie feels like he has to whisper his love for Eddie shamefully under the cover of night and the guise of sleep because he thinks Eddie would be uncomfortable by the words. Eddie has made Richie believe that he doesn’t love him because there’s something inside himself stopping him from saying it out loud. He’s made Richie ashamed to be in love, and Eddie is disgusted with himself for that more than he’s ever been before. Not when he realized he was gay, not when Henry Bowers broke his arm and he _laughed_  instead of cried because he had never really felt pain before that moment. Not even when he continued to take hits off of his inhaler when he was anxious years after knowing there was never any medication in it at all. 

Richie’s love does not scare him. Eddie isn’t uncomfortable. He _does_  love Richie. He can finally admit that, even if only to himself. Richie’s words have set a glow inside of him, the burning embers warm behind his sternum.

Eddie wants to follow Richie to the ends of the earth, to protect and hold onto each other for as long as the world allows them to live. Richie has always known what he wants, and Eddie thinks if he’s around that long enough outside of the shadow of their devil town, he might be able to find some dreams left for himself in the cracks of Los Angeles’ pavement. He applied to UCLA in a moment of weakness, and he feels as if his acceptance letter is so heavy and weighted with meaning, it could snap his desk in half where it’s stuffed inside an inane folder so Richie (nor his mother, dear _God_ that fight would be endless) doesn’t stumble upon it. He couldn’t tell Richie that he even applied, let alone got in, because all that would do is hold Richie back. Richie thinks he wants Eddie to come with him, but Eddie following him to LA would be Richie dragging the anchor of his past into the bright lights of his future. No, after tonight, after those words whispered into the back of his neck so painfully and plainly full of meaning, he knows what he has to do.

Eddie wonders if Richie would follow him, too, if only he could ask. It seems like the words have scarred his esophagus with the amount of times he’s swallowed them. If Eddie could commit to Richie in the way he so obviously wants him to, in the way Eddie is so scared to, maybe he would get to keep him forever.

But that’s not how the story goes, and forever is a fairytale. Eddie knows his life doesn’t get a happy ending. He feels sometimes like he’s read ahead to the end of his own book and is helpless to stop what he sees barreling towards him like a freight train. Eddie has always hated endings. They’re the worst part. Always something left unsaid, something left undone.

This isn’t the end, not yet, but he is certainly moving it along, because as soon as Richie leaves with the sunrise come morning, Eddie is going to tear up the acceptance letter burning a hole in his desk and on his conscience into the smallest, most unidentifiable pieces he can manage and throw them all away. Eddie will go to the University of Maine like his mother wants him to, and Richie will leave for LA like he's meant to.

He knows Richie will promise to write all the time and call at least once per day, if not multiple times a day. But Eddie hopes—knows, somehow, deep in his gut—that he won’t. Richie will forget about him because Eddie is just that: forgettable. And he’s glad for that; he’s glad for Richie. Truly, he is. Richie deserves to live his life fully and completely without Eddie holding him back. He deserves a life with large buildings and pretty girls and pretty boys and exciting parties and classes that force him to grow and experiences that help him learn and the career he always dreamed of.

He deserves to find a better reason to live. He deserves for someone to be able to say that they love him with the lights on.

 _I love you, too,_ Eddie mouths soundlessly. He feels infinitely lighter after forming the words, but the weightlessness comes with an odd, ancient dread that he’s had for longer than he can remember and has never been able to shake. Even though he’s entirely certain Richie is asleep now, he still can’t force the perfect words out of the prison of his throat. Those words are the most perfect thing he knows, so sacred and important, and perhaps that’s why he can’t get them out.

Perfection cannot exist for Eddie Kaspbrak, and he knows now more concretely than ever that if he can’t even say them when Richie is unconscious, then he never will.

Perfection will remain impossible, just like Eddie is comfortable with.


	15. June, 1994

_Take off your shoes now, you’ve come a long way_  
_You’ve walked all these miles and now you’re in the right place_  
_This is your party, everyone came_  
_Everyone's smiling and singing your name_  
_And the nightmares and monsters, your biggest fears_ _  
__Seem light years away, no, they won’t find you here_

—July, BOY

 

The scene has been set for years and is finally at its end. Eddie isn’t sure where he’d place the climax, the rise or the fall of his life—there have been too many to count—but he feels certain more than ever before that this summer is the resolution. One way or the other, this story is ending and another is beginning.

The problem with that is that he loves the story he’s living right now.

Of course, every book, movie or show Eddie has ever watched has had an ending. Everything does; friendship, school, love, life itself—it all has to end at some point. Eddie likes escaping into these worlds because in books and movies, everything gets tied up neatly. There’s almost always a happy ending. Eddie isn’t sure how much of what he knows will end come September, but he knows that most of what he’s grown attached to will have to. He’s forcing it to. Everyone loses everything eventually. The only thing Eddie can count on in his life is that everything changes eventually. Even if he doesn’t want it to.

All the Losers (well, almost all. Ben had to leave town last month when his aunt got transferred, and Eddie misses him every day, feels his absence as a palpable hole left in the fabric of their group despite the fact that Ben hasn’t called or written any of them—even Beverly, much to their surprise) have all gone to the Barrens after ditching their parents at Derry High School’s graduation. They’re all lounging on rocks and drinking truly god-awful whiskey that tastes more like rubbing alcohol than anything else. Eddie has had very little, but the rest of them are nearing the kind of drunk that has always made him a little uncomfortable.

He trusts his friends, of course he does. But he doesn’t trust the influence alcohol can have over one’s words and emotions. He remembers how Ben always looked when he drank, caught between screaming and crying but doing neither. Eddie worries that his friend was keeping too much inside. But he never voiced this when he was here because it would’ve been hypocritical and Ben would’ve known that. After all, Eddie is a practiced professional in the art of stifling himself, and after all the time he watched Ben stare at Beverly from across the room, the way he pointedly never sat next to her unless she chose to do so, he knows that Ben is, too.

Was. Ben _was._  It’s anybody’s guess how Ben _is._

They brought a cheap sheet cake from Freese’s, although Eddie isn’t sure how Stanley balanced it with one hand all the way from the convenience store and down Up-Mile Hill. Unfortunately, they’d forgotten to buy utensils, and Eddie had banned anyone from touching him with cakey hands, which really was only an issue for Richie who has been whining about Eddie’s militance when it comes to cleanliness from the moment they got there. Eddie had just rolled his eyes and told him he could resist cake for a few hours. Richie didn’t seem so sure. Eddie, of course, was right—Richie would put being able to touch Eddie over just about anything.

None of their parents are there, and Eddie is on cloud nine because of this. The thing is, Eddie Kaspbrak hates his mother. The thing is, Eddie Kaspbrak loves his mother. The thing is, Eddie Kaspbrak wants his mother to be someone different so that he can actually like her. Because that’s always been the problem—Sonia Kaspbrak conditioned Eddie to love her, situation taught him to hate her, but nothing has ever helped point him in the direction of _like._ He isn’t sure he even knows _how_ to like someone anymore.

All of his feelings for everybody in his life—his friends, his mother, Richie—are so intense that they could never be encapsulated by a word so trite and small as _like._ Eddie loves the same way he hates, the same way he fears: white-hot and all-consuming. He’s certain if he voiced this to anyone though, he’d be found out. His feelings for Richie have always been hot to the touch, a burning, unavoidable thing. For so long, he pretended like that fire was hate, but everybody saw through it. He would hug Richie goodbye every time they saw each other, even if he didn’t hug anyone else. He would ask Richie for help with homework, even though he knew the whole event would mostly involve Richie goofing off. He thought about him constantly, felt _plagued_ with it. He still does.

He keeps all the love he feels that isn’t familial locked deep inside the steel-trap of his heart. He tells Beverly he loves her on a near-daily basis because she's the only one left around he feels comfortable enough to tell it to. Once he realized his feelings for Bill were more akin to hero worship and paternal affection than anything concrete like love, _real_ love, he threw the word around for free with him, too. But Bill is leaving tomorrow to help his family get settled in their new town before he goes off to college, and Beverly is leaving to stay with her cousin in New York at the end of July so she can get acquainted with the city, and they all have plans to leave Derry except Mike, and everything is falling apart. It's just happening too gradually for anyone else to notice but Eddie.

As it is, there is a clown sleeping beneath their feet with too many teeth and lights gone dead inside it. It wants them all dead. It wants to suck the life out of them until they’re nothing but shaking shells filled only with fear. But today, none of them are thinking about the clown. Today, they’re thinking about each other. In the years since 1989, the Losers’ Club has grown together, bloomed and blossomed into a group of fearless folks who know how to ask for help and know when it’s necessary to shut up and listen. They feel invincible when they’re together.

 _Seven,_ Richie once said. _The way it should be._

And seven they are; even with Ben gone, he is not forgotten. For now, for today, they are free and together. Even before It rose, Eddie always felt that Derry was drenched in evil, both human and supernatural. But today, in this field, on these rocks, by this water, there is nothing monstrous about this town. It almost feels like it could be _theirs_ for the first time in their lives.

Richie is considerably less drunk than the rest of the group, though more so than Eddie. He’s goading their friends to jump in the quarry below them which makes Eddie think he’s probably a little more drunk than he's letting on. Eddie chastises him from his place beside him on a large rock near the cliff’s edge laying on top of their graduation robes. After a while, he stopped opening his eyes or even moving to do so, simply telling him off with an emotionless tone of voice. All of them know nothing about Eddie Kaspbrak has ever been emotionless, so he feels safer in the ability to pitch his voice this way. The tone itself is almost sarcastic in nature because it’s completely the opposite to how he truly feels: too much. Richie always listens for a little while before the perpetual boredom that lives within him like a physical, breathing entity forces his mouth once again. And there Eddie always is to talk him down.

For now.

Eddie and Richie are keeping the cake safe from the wandering feet of the Losers. There's already been a close call when Mike and Beverly were roughhousing earlier, and Eddie had snatched the paper Entenmann's box away from them before they crushed it. It’s now laying on his bare stomach as he splays out on the rock suntanning to avoid a mess. They’re all at the edge of the cliff, but it feels like they’re at the edge of the world instead, their lives stretching limitlessly in every direction, clouded in some parts and crystal clear in others.

Eddie has his head propped up in Richie’s lap and he’s been carding his fingers through Eddie’s hair distractedly, but then Richie’s hands are suddenly untangled from his hair and the box is removed from his stomach. Eddie squints his eyes open to find Richie with it on his thighs as he stares down at him.

“What?” Eddie prompts, shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Wanted to see that hot bod of yours,” Richie grins. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“You see me like this practically every night, you horny bastard.” Eddie eyes settle closed, unbothered by Richie’s hot stare and liquid eyes as they rake over his chest.

“Not in the light like this,” Richie says. His voice is quiet and pensive and it makes Eddie open his eyes once again to watch his expression carefully. “You’re all…”

“What?” Eddie repeats, frowning curiously.

“You know…” Richie gestures vaguely to Eddie’s frame. “Glowy.”

“Glowy?” Eddie smiles slightly, the amused tilt to his mouth and the kindness in his eyes giving his fondness away plainly. Eddie doles out his affection for Richie in brief, specific, private moments like this. He knows the others are too wrapped up in their conversation a few yards away to hear them, let alone be watching them. This afternoon is a safe place to hide for them all, and Eddie is reveling in it.

“Yeah. You’re like…” Richie looks out over the quarry and squints, like he’ll find the right words to express himself laying in the dormant water. Richie is not often lost for words. As Eddie waits, he flips around so his back is to the sun and he can look at Richie easier with his cheek pillowed on his laced fingers. Eventually, Richie shakes his head, muttering something too quietly for Eddie to catch it, even with their close proximity. Eddie doesn’t ask him to repeat himself. Instead, he smiles and props himself up on one forearm, using his other hand to fist into the front placket of Richie’s unbuttoned floral print shirt, and pulls on it so he can lean down to meet Eddie halfway for a sweet kiss.

They aren’t big on PDA—living in a provincial town can do that—but when they’re only with the Losers and there’s no chance of anybody else coming upon them, they’ve been known to get a bit handsy. This really only ever happens at the Barrens, Bill or Richie’s houses, or Beverly’s aunt’s apartment. The Barrens are safe because ever since Henry Bowers washed up half-dead out of the sewers along with the rest of the bodies and was sent away to Juniper Hill on the charge of the murders of his friends, his father, and all the victims of It, nobody really goes near them. The Barrens are Loser Territory. Greta Bowie is still lurking, but she’s more of an opportunistic bully and rarely seeks any of them out anymore unless she happens upon them when they’re vulnerable and alone (a rare occurrence since the summer of 1989). Beverly’s is safe because her aunt works more often than she’d like, leaving Bev alone in the apartment a lot, and Richie’s is safe because his parents know that the two of them are together and have told them there’s no need to hide under their roof.

And Bill’s house was a safe place mostly because his parents didn’t really interact with him much after Georgie’s death in 1988 and gave him a lot of (unwanted) space. But they haven't been there in years, using Mike's farm now as a place to be all together. Bill's house as they knew it is gone; just boxes and a new family waiting to move in with two twin girls around the age he will always remember Georgie being. It hurt Eddie when he had to ride past that big, haunting house to get to the Barrens today because he's reminded of not only Georgie, a boy he loved so much, but also of Bill. Always Bill. Bill who isn't gone yet, but who Eddie knows won't call or write, even though he promised them all he would. Eddie knows him better than that. He knows Bill wants a fresh start more than any of them. Bill and Eddie's biological father both severed ties—Bill by leaving in a week with no sign of ever coming back and Frank Kaspbrak by dying too early in Eddie’s life for him to really know what he was like outside of scattered memories of tomatoes and piggyback rides.

Considering they’re currently in one of their designated safe places, they’ve all been a bit touchy all day. Well, Richie has been touchy. Eddie is very decidedly never touchy with Richie unless they are entirely alone, Losers included. The fact that Eddie had his head in Richie’s lap and is initiating affectionate physical contact in plain view of them is such a shock to Richie that he jolts in surprise when their lips meet. But after a few seconds, the shock wears off, and Eddie can feel Richie smile against his mouth. Their lips move together in a chaste, practiced way, far beyond their years. Eddie and Richie aren’t prudes when it comes to intimacy by any means—ever since getting together last year, they’ve experimented with almost everything, with the notable exception of Richie’s mouth on Eddie’s dick. For the first few months, their touches when they were alone were frenzied and impatient, tearing away each other's clothes and pressing hasty kisses anywhere they could reach.

But after a year of this, they’ve both gotten used to each other’s bodies, and know exactly where to touch each other to spur action. Richie loves Eddie’s hands in his hair in any way he can have them. Oftentimes when they’re hanging out alone in one of their bedrooms, Eddie will sit on the edge of the bed while Richie does homework or reads comics with his back pressed up against the side of it. Eddie will simply brush through his long curls gently, careful not to get snagged on knots, knowing that any type of hair-pulling is bound to get Richie riled up and ruin the softness of the mood. Similarly, Eddie becomes pliant underneath Richie and compliant with almost anything he wants when his fingertips draw light circles into the over-sensitive skin of his hips.

Eddie knows no one will ever be able to touch him the way Richie does. It pains him to know someone eventually will, and that other people will put their hands in Richie’s hair and pull the same way Eddie has done for years now, long before they were ever honest with themselves. This is Eddie’s decision and he knows it. Letting Richie leave without him in tow is entirely his fault, and it’s all because of his own cowardice, and an acceptance letter torn to pieces and thrown away.

But right now, he doesn’t want to think about the inevitability of their separation. Right now, their lips are touching, the sun is warm on their skin, and their friends are laughing drunkenly a few feet away. Right now, Eddie’s knuckles are brushing against the bare skin of Richie’s stomach where he's holding onto to his shirt and Richie’s hand is at the nape of his neck, the kind of gentle touch that Eddie adores and is laden with the words neither of them can say in the light. Right now, everything is peaceful.

“Hey, Rich,” Eddie sighs quietly, sitting up to place one of his legs in Richie’s lap so he can have a better angle, careful not to disturb the cake box or gain attention from their friends. Richie hums, smiling against his mouth and placing one of his hands on Eddie’s bare thigh, running up and down it without heat, just touching because he can. Eddie’s heart feels a little unsteady with all the affection it holds. “I like you a lot.”

Eddie knows these words probably don’t mean as much to Richie as they do to him. Eddie has spent his whole life going back and forth between the black and white worlds of love and hate. To simply _like_ someone without the obsession that comes with love or hate is truly groundbreaking for him. Eddie isn’t sure if Richie understands the deeper meaning behind his words, but even without an explanation, he definitely seems to appreciate the sentiment because his smile widens as he presses his lips against Eddie’s once more before pulling back to look at him.

“I like you, too, lovebug,” he whispers. Eddie breathes in deeply and smiles, wholly content in a way he doesn’t remember ever being before.

Of course, as he always does, Richie has to ruin that.

“Hey, baby,” Richie starts, mumbling sweetly against Eddie’s mouth after he's pulled him forward once again. Usually, Eddie can tell when Richie is about to ‘get off on a good one’, but right now, his head is swimming with so much joy that he feels a bit dizzy, so instead he simply hums in response, eyes still closed dazedly. Richie smile only grows. “Didn’t know compliments turned you on. Good to know for the future, though; I’ll praise you all day long if it means I get some of this sweet, sweet action.”

“God!” Eddie shrieks into Richie’s open mouth, eyes flying open. Richie laughs brightly at Eddie’s annoyance, head thrown back and eyes closed. Eddie grunts angrily and without thinking, grabs a fistful of the cake still on Richie’s legs and smears it all over his mouth and cheeks. Richie gasps in genuine surprise, his hand tightening to a vice-grip around Eddie’s thigh and his head shooting back down to stare at him with wide eyes.

“You little shit!” he laughs delightedly, wiping most of it off and smearing it into the grass beside the rock. “You know I can’t do the same because you won’t lemme touch you with cake-hands! Fuck you!” All Eddie does is give him a shrug and a shit-eating grin that Richie returns full-force. Eddie pops his fingers in his mouth one by one to lick the chocolate from his hands. Richie’s eyes are glued to his mouth and Eddie watches gleefully as his pupils dilate when he hollows his cheeks. His smirk turns into something sweeter when Eddie finishes and grins cheekily up at him. “God, I can’t wait to do this at our wedding,” Richie sighs almost dreamily, and Eddie’s heart just about fucking _stops._

“Wedding?” He asks, trying for casual, but it comes out as a high-pitched squeak instead.

“Yeah. ‘M gonna marry the shit out of you,” he shrugs plainly, unbothered by Eddie’s nervous tone, as if his statement has already been rooted in fact. Eddie doesn’t flounder, can’t let Richie know how deeply his words are affecting him, so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind:

“That’s not even legal.”

“Since when do I ever follow the law?” Richie smirks.

“Oh, big shot, huh, Officer Nell?” Eddie scoffs flippantly, feigning boredom.

“You’d know, wouldn’t ya?” He points to his crotch, eyebrows raised expectantly, thrusting his hips into the air once, nearly upending Eddie’s leg still thrown over his lap and the cake box on his thighs. Eddie vibrates with anger.

“I am going to kill you,” he promises with narrowed eyes, voice reedy with intensity.

“Hopefully after we’re already married so you can get all my money.” Eddie relaxes somewhat and rolls his eyes.

“What money?”

“The money I get from my impending fame, obviously,” Richie smiles proudly.

“What impending fame?”

“Ooh! Spaghetti Man got off on a good one, guys!” Richie stomps his feet excitedly as he hollers over to the group who barely pay him any mind, nodding slightly at him distractedly before going back to what looks like an incredibly intense conversation.

“Did you really just refer to me as _Spaghetti Man_ after casually asking me to marry you?” Eddie asks incredulously as he removes the sliding cake box from Richie’s lap and places it carefully beside them.

“Yes. That’s your God-given name; I’m just trying to be respectful.” Eddie’s glare could melt iron.

“Murder. Death. Bloody, painful death.”

“Mmm, no thanks, love, blood and necrophilia aren’t really kinks of mine. But I’d be willing to try them if you—”

 _“Holy shit,”_ Eddie groans, shaking his head in shock. “You’re a fucking imbecile. How did I ever sink so low?”

“Ah, perhaps the bar was set so high that I just walked right under,” Richie preens.

“That’s the only logical possibility.”

“Oh, you’re fucking full of it,” Richie chuckles, grabbing Eddie’s hips to pull him fully into his lap. Eddie goes willingly despite the fact that Richie’s left hand is still mostly covered in cake—maybe it’s the fact that he’s still reeling from Richie’s almost-maybe-sort-of-proposal, maybe it’s the mood in the air, the freedom and safety they’re all feeling, or maybe it’s just the fact that Eddie has always been and will always be weak for Richie Tozier. Either way, he allows Richie to tug him into his space and pet at his hips in the way that always makes him feel weak at the knees, and falls back onto Richie’s thighs, his knees bent to give Eddie a place to lean back against.

Richie hums softly, leaning his forehead onto Eddie’s chest, careful not to transfer any of the cake that’s still leftover on his cheeks onto Eddie’s skin. “Eds…” Richie whispers like a prayer. Eddie cards his fingers through his hair and gives his bowed head a half smile. He presses a long kiss into Richie’s unruly mop of hair before hooking his chin over top of it and tugging lightly at the tight curls at the nape of his neck. Richie sighs, melts, and Eddie does, too.

“Don’t call me that,” he returns fondly, just as quiet; a callback of sorts—a message. They both know what this exchange means, what it has always meant, what they will never be able to say in the daylight even if they mean it more than anything else:

_I love you._

_I love you, too._


	16. July, 1994

_When panic grips your body and your heart’s a hummingbird_  
_Raven thoughts blacken your mind until you're breathing in reverse_  
_All your friends and sedatives mean well, but make it worse_  
_And every reassurance just magnifies the doubt_ _  
__Better find yourself a way to level out_

—If the Brakeman Turns My Way, Bright Eyes

 

“Are you bitches ready to rumble?!” Richie shouts from up ahead of the group without looking back.

Today is the Derry Summer Fair and the last time Eddie is going to see Beverly before she moves to New York. The scene is bittersweet, all sugar cane and frustration. Eddie knows time is running out, and he would give anything to stop today in its tracks, to be able to live this day over and over again and it isn’t even halfway done. But they all know the clock will continue ticking no matter how badly Eddie wants to grab the hands of time and smash them to pieces.

Ben has been gone for months now, and Bill left with his parents a few weeks ago, so losing Beverly is a kick in the gut, a blatant reminder that their time together is up. Eddie went over to Bill’s house to say goodbye and they swung together on the porch swing that didn’t belong to the Denbroughs anymore. Eddie didn’t want to go inside because the house was empty, devoid of all soul—no photos of a boy immortalized at six years old, no lighthouse figurines lined up neatly on the staircase, no baby grand piano in the study. Everything had been shipped out to the Denbrough’s new home in England, but the truth is they had all left Derry emotionally the day Georgie died. Bill has never been the same, isolating and pulling away from those he loves the most. Maybe an entirely new country would help his family forget the loss, the grief, the pain.

Eddie hopes so, for their sakes.

During their conversation, Eddie told Bill that Richie asked him to marry him. Casual. Flip. Nothing much of note, or at least trying hard not to sound like it. Bill had just smiled softly, maybe a bit forlorn, but emotionally removed from the situation already, and said, “That’s nice.”

Bill is gone now, and it’s just Beverly, Stanley, Mike, Richie, and himself at the Derry Summer Fair. One last hurrah for Beverly Marsh. She always liked to go out in style.

Richie and Beverly both love rollercoasters, but there’s only ever been a scant few at the fair, and they were made for kids. Richie has been permanently banned from the carousel after the incident in 1992 where he pretended to bang one of the horses on the ride and made a child cry. Beverly and Stan have called him a ‘horsefucker’ ever since. This year, however, the town splurged on an upside-down ride called The Zipper standing tall in the memorial park. Beverly and Richie have gone on it five times in the span of an hour and a half, and Richie has already thrown up twice. Eddie held his hair back both times and grimaced as Richie vomited into the trash can placed conveniently beside the exit of the ride.

Eddie wants to say he’s above _I told you so’s_ but he’s not a fucking saint. He is, however, a damn good friend, so he doesn’t shove it in Richie’s face _too_ hard after the third round of vomiting. He’s just glad he packed mouthwash in his bookbag.

“I told you, baby,” Eddie murmurs, inconspicuously petting the nape of Richie’s neck, “you shouldn’t have had that fourth corn dog.”

“But they’re so _good,”_ Richie whines miserably, heaving once more. Eventually, Richie takes the water offered to him by Stanley, gargles and spits, then does the same with Eddie’s mouthwash. After this, he’s ready to roll again.

“Stanley, Mike, let’s go get cotton candy for Beverly! We gotta splurge on our girl!” Richie cheers, slinging his arms around both their necks. “Eds, you’re banned from attending because of your irrational hatred of sugar,” he throws to Eddie as he skips away.

“I don’t hate sugar! I love my teeth!” Eddie calls back. “What an idiot,” he mumbles, but a smile peeks through. Beverly chuckles beside him, shaking her head.

“You guys have seemed a lot closer recently,” she notes, taking Eddie’s hand as they follow behind their friends at a more leisurely pace. Their fingers aren’t linked, but the blatant affection is still clear to any passersby. Beverly and Eddie have been especially touchy for the last few years because of the touch-testing they practiced. At this point for them, holding hands is nothing but an extension of their love for each other. Eddie thinks it’s nice. It’s _so_ nice. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do without her.

“We are,” Eddie smiles, squeezing her hand.

“Any special reason?”

“Sure.” Eddie is pretty fucking proud of his attempt to seem disaffected. “He asked me to marry him a couple weeks ago.”

Eddie chances a glance over at her, and she looks like she’s about ready to fly apart in excitement. Despite this, her voice is entirely casual when she prompts lightly, “Oh, yeah? What’d you say?”

“That it’d be illegal.”

“Well sure, but what’d you say _after that?”_

“I dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “He had cake on his face and then tried to kiss me, so I told him to go wash off in the water before coming near me again.”

“That’s... That’s it?” Beverly asks dumbfounded, the calm in her voice slipping.

“Yeah. What was I supposed to say?” It’s a very stupid question considering they _both_ know what he was supposed to say, but Eddie’s hoping she’ll simply drop the topic.

But this is Beverly Marsh, so right on cue, she groans long and loud, “I don’t know, maybe _yes?!”_

“Oh, I’m sure he knew I’d say yes,” Eddie says, flipping his hand dismissively, still trying to aim for casual when in reality he’s been replaying the scene over and over again in his head so often, he’s afraid the VCR of his mind might break. He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting when he told Beverly about this; she is very much not like Bill. “Why else would he ask?”

“What kind of logic is that?” Beverly demands.

“I don’t know, the smart kind?!” Eddie shoots back.

“No it isn’t! You go over there right now and tell him you want to marry him back!” Instead of quieting her, as there are many people around and the two of them are beginning to approach the cotton candy stand, Eddie tries to hold onto his anger.

_“No!”_

_“Why not?!”_

“Because I…” Eddie sighs, deflating, all the frustration falling at his feet with that one breath, “...can’t.”

As soon as Eddie’s anger dissipates, Beverly’s does, too. She has always been incredibly good at matching people’s emotions, especially Eddie’s. “Why not?”

“Because I just can’t, okay? He’s going to California, and I’m staying in Maine, and he just… He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t _really_ want that. Me. He doesn’t really want me. He only thinks he wants to marry me because I’m _here._ But once he’s gone, he’ll find new and exciting people that are way better than me, healthier than me, better _to him_ than me, and he’ll see. He will. He’ll see…”

“Eddie…” Beverly whispers, wracked with sorrow. She squeezes Eddie’s hand, and he has half a mind to pull away. He doesn’t, just rubs at his elbow nervously with his other hand instead. This isn’t Beverly’s fault; it certainly isn't Richie’s. It’s no one’s fault but his own. “Who are you trying to convince?” It’s a rhetorical question considering they both know the answer, but neither of them say it. “Don’t put words in his mouth or assume his feelings. He loves you… You know he does...”

Eddie snorts derisively, dark and terrified, “Not for long.”

“Eds, pl—”

“Don’t,” Eddie warns, voice wavering with the intensity of unshed tears. “Please don’t, Beverly. I know, okay? I know he does. But there's nothing I can do.” The world is going on around them, couples walking by, children laughing, people screaming on the nearby ride, but Beverly and Eddie are lost to each other. They see so much pain mirrored between them and no possible way to fix it despite how desperately they both want to.

“Okay,” she whispers, and Eddie can hardly hear her from the volume of the fair, but he sees her mouth form the word and her nod of assent, so he pulls her in for a bone-crushing hug, hoping that if it doesn’t fix what’s wrong with them both, it’ll at least help. He hopes if he squeezes hard enough, it might reset the misalignments within them. He thinks about Sonia, and he thinks about Alvin, and he thinks about how he’s never tried to compare their struggles, but Beverly has told him time and time again that what Sonia does to him is abusive, too, and he _loves_ her. He loves her so much, and fuck, he doesn’t want to _lose_ her. He doesn't want to lose any of them. He doesn’t know who he’ll be without someone safe around to tell them that he—

“Love y'so much, Beverly,” he whispers harshly, the words coming out rushed and all tangled together. He doesn’t know why it’s so much easier to say it to Beverly than it is to say it to the man he’s been in love with for most of his life. “I’m sorry I’m not good to him like I should. I promise that I want to be.”

“I love you, too,” she says, and doesn’t respond to Eddie’s apology, probably because she knows it isn’t for her. She sounds so sad, heartbroken really, and Eddie wonders if maybe the move is taking a larger toll on her than she lets on. He goes to ask her what’s wrong, if it’s more than just what he told her, but Richie cuts in loudly, overlapping Eddie’s soft question and drowning it out so that it was like it was never asked at all.

“Well golly gee, fellas, looky here!” He crows in a Southern accent as he approaches them. Eddie hides his face in Beverly’s shoulder and hopes she doesn’t mind if he lets her dress soak up the tears on his face. “What a lovely pair you two make! Should I be jealous?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely, Trashmouth,” Eddie chuckles, sniffing quietly and hoping he doesn’t pull away from their hug with red-rimmed eyes. “I would absolutely leave you for the incomparable, beautiful Beverly Marsh.”

“Not if I get to her first!” Richie cackles, shoving his and Bev’s cotton candies at Stanley before picking her up by the waist and hoisting her up over his shoulder. Her laughter is punched out of her in a scream as she begins to kick and struggle, but Mike has come up behind Richie to help make sure they don’t fall, so her efforts are in vain. “Come on, Ms. Marsh! I’m here on my black stallion to whisk you away from that terrible man!”

“Hey!” Beverly and Eddie both shout. Eddie grins up at her and she grins back, and Eddie knows they won’t discuss Richie’s proposal again. They won’t really get the chance to, because this is the last time they’re going to see her. Beverly is leaving for New York in a few days, and she’s excited as hell—or, at least what she’s showing them on the surface is. Beverly’s always been quite good at acting differently to how she feels, something Eddie has always envied.

Richie, however, is not nearly as jazzed. He’s been clinging to her side all day, and Eddie gets it. Richie and Beverly have always had a sort of connection that he’ll never quite understand. He doesn’t try to, either. There’s just something about their relationship that seems unshakeable.

When Eddie broke his arm at the Neibolt house, Richie had flipped out. He refused to ever go back, was ready to let the town burn to the ground because the clown had nearly killed his best friend. His arm was already busted from a run-in with Henry Bowers earlier that summer, and so the fall through the floor at Neibolt nearly snapped his weak bones in half. Even in their fight, all it took was for Bill to tell Richie It got Beverly for him to acquiesce; that's all it took for all the Losers, too, but Eddie doesn't think there will ever be a universe where Richie doesn’t follow his friends into the dark.

And all it took was a call from Richie and Bill for Eddie to do the same. They’re a family borne from shared pain and suffering. Even though Richie told Eddie he was never going to be able to unhear the scream he let out when Richie set his arm, he still threw himself down a sewer grate for Beverly Marsh.

Eddie still wakes up screaming with no memory of what he was dreaming about, and he’s not certain he’ll ever forget either, but knows he’d do it all again in a heartbeat so long as it keeps Beverly safe.

Richie has put Bev down by now, holding hands with their fingers linked and eating the cotton candy that Stanley has hoisted back onto them, facing the sun proudly wearing matching red, heart-shaped sunglasses. Richie’s are resting over top his prescription glasses, and while he got a pair after the car accident that are much sleeker, the sunglasses still look clunky and awkward on his face. Eddie hates that he finds it charming, but still smiles where he trails behind them.

He has a feeling that even if Beverly stays in touch with no one else when she goes to New York City, she’ll still call Richie. Eddie hopes she does at least. He’s pretty much positive that losing Beverly might break Richie completely. He’s already been hanging on by a tenuous thread ever since Bill left without much of a trace. It makes sense—long-distance calls are expensive enough, but continental calls? Forget it. Richie had been expecting a letter, though. He still is. He promises them all it’s coming. Eddie doesn’t have the heart to tell him he knows there won’t ever be a letter, because saying it out loud wouldn’t just break Richie, but himself as well. Richie’s blind faith in the people he loves has permeated into Eddie’s head after so long, and while it isn’t his only mode like it is with Richie, Eddie still treasures the bit of optimism Richie has imparted in him.

Richie spots a gumball machine in a row of vendors and rushes over to it, already turning out his pockets. He finds that it isn’t gumballs inside the machine but is instead a 25 cent machine filled with clear globes and little trinkets inside them. He decides to buy them all charms when he puts in the first quarter and comes away with a toy soldier. He gifts it to Stan, proclaiming he’s their protector, and not even the stoicness of Stanley Uris can help but grin at that. Next comes a little green flashlight on a string which he gives to Mike. A little rainbow string bracelet with an anchor in the middle is given to Beverly. He ties the bracelet to her wrist before kissing the back of her hand. She scoffs, flapping her hand with flushed cheeks. Eddie has a feeling that, while they’re all a little bit in love with Bill, they’re all a little bit in love with Richie, too. Eddie finds doesn’t mind sharing him with his friends.

He pulls out the last one, a little silver pegasus charm on a black string long enough to wear as a necklace. Richie hooks it around Eddie’s neck and kisses his cheek swiftly before any passersby notice. Eddie’s cheeks burn when Richie announces, “Perfect. Now we all match.”

“But what about you, Trashmouth?” Beverly asks, digging her hand into the huge sewn-on front pocket of her dress hooked closed by a single huge button and comes away with a quarter that she flicks Richie’s way. “There ya go, sweetheart. Buy yaself somethin’ pretty.”

“Oh, you spoil me, Ms. Marsh!” He giggles as he catches the coin in midair, and pulls out the same rainbow bracelet as Beverly. “Ooh, put it on, put it on!” He squeals, and Beverly has to steady his jittery hand with a quiet laugh before tying it on. “There! Now we really are best friends! We’ve even got the friendship bracelets _and_ the sunglasses to prove it!”

“We were gonna be best friends with or without the bracelets or glasses, Ditchie,” Beverly laughs, hooking her arm around Richie’s neck and digging her knuckles into the top of his head. Richie flails wildly until Beverly releases him. She looks around at everyone with a forlorn expression. She slips her sunglasses up on top of her head and Richie does the same, trying to get a better look at everyone from the shadow of the store they’re in front of.

“Y’know, I really never thought I’d miss anything about this town. Always wanted to leave as soon as possible, pack my bags and never look back,” she laughs, the sound a bit garbled. “But then I met you guys, and y’all are making the urge to run pretty fuckin’ difficult to give into.”

“Oh, Bev,” Eddie sighs, wrapping an arm around her waist and tipping his head on his shoulder.

“We’ll miss you, too, shortstack,” Richie says, sniffing harshly as he wraps his arms around her from behind.

“Fuck off, Rich,” she chuckles, but clamps onto his arm hard, like she’s trying to keep him there forever, or maybe commit the feeling of his love and affection to memory. Eddie knows how she feels—it’s what he’s been doing himself all summer.

“I never thought I’d have friends like this either,” Mike admits quietly, taking Beverly’s hand, afraid to be too affectionate with her in front of their racist town. Eddie wishes so desperately he could join their hug, feels miles apart from Mike despite the fact that he’s only a few feet away. “I always spent all my time at the farm. My parents were my best friends, you know? And that was fine. But then I met you guys, and…”

“I love you so much, Mikey,” Beverly swears, voice thick when Mike trails off. “I love you all.” She lifts her head from where it’s leaning on Eddie’s shoulder to look at Stanley. “Especially you, Stan.”

“Wh—… What do you mean, especially?” Stanley asks, unmoving from his place observing them a few feet away. Stan has never been the affectionate type; even in the sewers, their emotion-filled group hugs were usually down a player, especially after the abandonment Stanley perceived by being left with the painted lady. It isn’t surprising he hasn’t stepped forward.

“You were always just… my friend,” she says, shaking her head a little bit in awe. “You never expected anything of me, or asked anything of me. You never touched me without asking, you didn’t stare at me like everyone else does. I’m not a spectacle or a trophy to you—I’m just a girl. I’ve always been able to count on you to just _be_ there, you know? To know me.”

“I… I’ve always thought I’ve been a terrible friend to you,” Stanley chuckles mirthlessly, hanging his head in shame, “to you all, really. You deserve so much better than me. I’m so fucked up, you know?”

“No, Stan,” Richie insists, rushing forward to grip his shoulders, and they all quickly join him to do the same once they notice that Stanley hasn’t winced away like he sometimes does, “you’re just as fucked up as the rest of us. No more, no less.”

Beverly nods emphatically, “Yeah, we’re all messes. You’re just as insane as we are.”

Stanley chuckles, “I can’t really believe that’s true,” but he still looks up between the encouraging faces of their group and gives them all a half-smile. “Thanks though.”

Richie gives him a smacking kiss on the forehead and Stanley laughs quietly, not even bothering to wipe away the affection as he always does.

“Okay,” Beverly sighs, grabbing Eddie’s wrist to check his watch and nodding, “I’ve gotta go. Auntie’s waiting back at the house and I’ve still got a shit ton of packing to do. Procrastinator, you know?”

“Wait, so… this is it?” Richie asks, voice small. Beverly gives him a saccharine, almost serene smile, like she knows the future already, and despite the horror she sees, she knows it will all be okay anyway. Eddie remembers the vision she talked about having in the sewers and wonders just how much weight Bev has been carrying around all these years. She walks up to Richie and kisses his cheek.

“For now,” she says, and _fuck_ if that doesn’t ring true. Maybe everything ends eventually, but nothing ever ends forever. Forever doesn’t even really exist because life is always replaced with death, and then replaced with life; an endless cycle of decay and rebirth that they are helpless to stop or control. As nice as it is to be here with four of his best friends, Eddie knows that this is only the first step of a long life. He hopes he makes the best of the rest of it the way he’s tried to make the best out of these past 18 years.

Despite the trauma of the clown, his mother, and their town at large, Eddie still managed a life worth living because of six friends he made in the summer of 1989. And that, to him, is nothing to be sad about. In fact, it’s pretty fucking cool.

Even as Beverly walks away for the last time and time finally catches up with them, he tries to hold onto that feeling. _Cool,_ he thinks as Beverly disappears from view. _Cool,_ he thinks when Richie wipes his ruddy cheeks with his shirt sleeve and tells everyone with a hollowness in his voice that Eddie’s never heard quite so intensely before that he’s going home. _Cool,_ he thinks when Richie doesn’t ask him to follow.

Cool. Cool, cool, cool.


	17. August, 1994

_So this is the end of the movie, but real life isn’t a movie_  
_You want things to be wrapped up neatly, the way that stories do  
__You’re looking for answers, but answers aren’t looking for you_

 _Because life is a gradual series of revelations that occur over a period of time_  
_It’s not some carefully crafted story; it’s a mess, and we’re all gonna die_  
_People aren’t characters, they’re complicated and their choices don’t always make sense  
Some things might happen that seem connected, but there’s not always a reason or rhyme  
__Life doesn’t make narrative sense_

—The End of the Movie, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

 

The scene is barren. More hugely vast than the Quarry, more uncannily empty than the sewers.

Today, Eddie is saying goodbye to Derry, Maine. But before he does that, he has to say goodbye to Richie Tozier. Just as he expected, this is proving much harder to do than the former.

To Eddie, Derry and Richie have always lived separately from each other despite the fact that he’s never _really_ seen Richie outside it, aside from a single trip to play laser tag for a birthday of his when they were younger. B.C.—Before Clown. They are opposing forces, Richie and Derry, and Eddie has always known this. He was never meant to live in this town; it must’ve been a glitch in the system, a mistake, because Richie Tozier is so much _better_ than Derry. He is bigger and brighter than any dull, dead light Derry could ever try to create. Maggie and Went broke the mould when they made Richie, and the town will echo cavernously with silence when he leaves it. Eddie has always known this.

What he has also known is that he himself is not a bright light.

Eddie’s biggest, boldest dream is to open an _auto repair shop_ for Christ’s sake. Eddie has fallen in love with cars from the many times Richie’s clunker has broken down on the side of the road and he’s come out from under the hood covered in grease and filled with pride when it starts back up. But he can’t even find the guts to do _that_ because he’d have to tell his mother he wants to study engineering. He knows he couldn’t just _tell her._ He’d have to _ask her permission_ to study something as dirty as engineering, and he knows even then that she’d sob out her refusal. Sonia doesn’t want Eddie to touch broken things for fear they will break him, too. She doesn’t want him interacting with anything that could possibly take his delicacy away.

Eddie used to have a dream world when he was younger, an unrealistic version of what he thought he wanted reality to be. But as he grew up, as he became busted and broken by the evil that sleeps beneath his feet and the evil that harvested within his mother, he lost that world and replaced it instead with another.

He fights the devils gnashing inside his skull with images of grease on his hands and Richie swinging his feet from where he sits on Eddie’s worktable. In his dreams, Richie practices a skit he has to perform at a comedy club in a few days while a terrible mixtape he made filled with R&B and synth-pop hits plays quietly from the stereo beside him. Eddie is strong, physically and emotionally, and very much in love. He tells Richie this every day in his dream-world. This is where Eddie lives when he isn’t with Richie (and sometimes even when he _is_ with him) to combat the fear that he will amount to nothing. In this world, he and Richie attended UCLA together and relocated to New York after graduation for Richie’s career. They live with Beverly as she builds her fashion empire, Mike, Ben, Stan and Bill all live next door, they have a cat and a dog, proudly wear rings on their left fourth fingers, and most importantly, are _happy._

He knows he could’ve had a chance at a life like that that doesn’t only exist in daydreams if he hadn’t been so damn _scared._

It’s 4:30 A.M. on the day Eddie leaves for college. Richie himself leaves in two days. They’re both bone-tired but won’t allow themselves to fall asleep, because in three hours, there will be a knock at Eddie’s door, and Eddie will have to drag his suitcases into his mother’s hatchback and leave Derry behind. Leave the remaining members of the Losers’ Club behind. Leave _Richie_ behind. And fuck, he really doesn’t want to have to do those last two.

“Can’t I just pack you in my suitcase?” Eddie asks hopefully with a watery smile from where he’s got every part of his body he can muster wrapped around Richie’s. _An octopus,_ Richie told him over a year ago now, _all limbs,_ and he was right. They're still naked from the two times they’ve fucked that night, the first frantic and rushed, the other tender and desperate. They’re sticky with sweat and cum, and Eddie’s heart isn’t racing just from that. “You’re lanky enough. Bet you’d fold right up like a cute little sardine.”

“Oh, you’re a little shit, aren’t ya?” Richie chuckles. His smile drops quickly though as he whispers, “Wish I could.”

 _Quiet._ That’s the perfect word to describe Richie from the moment he climbed through Eddie’s window six hours ago. Eddie’s glad for this because if his mother knew Richie was here, she’d surely kick him out, but he knows the volume of Richie’s voice could go higher, especially with the white noise from the air purifier his mother thrusted on him in May due to the fact that he sneezed three times in a row at dinner. Even when they were fucking, Richie barely made any noise at all which is incredibly uncommon for him, didn’t speak aside from whimpering Eddie’s name, half heartbreak, half ecstasy.

“Richie,” Eddie breathes, tracing the stress-lines etched into Richie’s face. “C’mon, we’ll still have letters, and the phone once a week, just like we promised.”

“Yeah,” Richie sighs, letting out a silent, mirthless laugh, just a few wracks of his body. “Right. Just like Bill, Ben and Bev all promised.”

“Babe, no,” Eddie says, voice cracking slightly, “this is different, okay? It is. We’re different. You’re gonna get sick of me from how much you hear about boring ol’ U-Maine.”

“There’s still time, you know,” Richie sniffs, “for you to come with me.”

“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers.

Eddie holds his breath as he feels Richie begin to shake violently beneath him. “Rich,” Eddie says, smoothing the curls matted to his forehead back, but it’s a useless fight against Richie’s malignant thoughts. Eddie is trying to stay upright for him, feet planted firmly on the ground so Richie has something solid to hold onto and keep him from falling. Their relationship has been a give-and-take between who needs to be held up more. It’s always been mostly even, something they’re both proud of. But Eddie knows come tomorrow morning, the pillars they’ve become for each other will be gone. He hopes it will at least be a nice memory on Richie’s dark days. They’re both clutching tightly onto feelings they know will slip away.

Richie’s right—their friends had all had promised, but no one has heard a word from any of them. Letters without replies, calls gone unanswered. This has shocked Eddie, especially where Bev is concerned. He swore she wouldn’t break her promise to Richie that she’d send a letter about how big and bright New York is. This has, unsurprisingly, affected Richie horribly. He’s felt so abandoned, forgotten, and Eddie yearns to be able to piece his shredded acceptance letter back together so long as it keeps Richie from feeling so sad. He wishes he could shield Richie from every evil thing that exists in this world—loss, distance, suffering, his own thoughts, their past that they always seem to be running from.

“Why did they leave me?” Richie croaks out after a while, voice wobbling and raw, like he’s been on the verge of tears for months without allowing himself the luxury of crying. “Why does everyone forget about me?”

“You’re the least forgettable person I’ve ever met. And they didn’t leave you, angel,” Eddie promises quietly, tenderly, “they just left Derry.”

“It’s the same thing,” Richie shrugs, curling in on himself and hiding his face in Eddie’s ribs like he’s trying to disappearing into the bedding, or crawl straight through into Eddie’s chest. It’d be adorable if it weren’t so upsetting; Eddie knows how badly Richie wants to disappear in general, but he won’t let him. His militance in forcing Richie to keep the lights on inside his head has helped him on the days when Eddie doesn’t want to keep on his own.

“It’s not. Not even close. You’re not the same as this stupid town even a little bit. You’ve always had city lights inside you, Richie. Always meant to be one of them. You’re so big and bright. You keep shining no matter what,” Eddie tells him with a fond half-smile. “It’s incredible.”

“How am I supposed to do that without you guys to help me?”

“You’re so strong, baby. You are so fucking strong. Remember when you almost did cocaine at that one party?” Richie winces at the memory, more telling than a nod. “You didn’t though. You came to my window instead. I’m always gonna be just a phone call away if you need a friend. I won’t let you go.”

“A friend, huh?” Richie teases with a small smile, flipping Eddie gently and putting his head on his chest. He looks up at him through his eyelashes with a smirk. “That what I am to you?” Eddie rolls his eyes and swats meaninglessly at the air nearby Richie’s bare shoulder.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole. You know what you are to me.”

“Do I?” Richie asks. His smile has lost its teasing edge, but his voice hasn’t. It’s the Mr. Confident Voice, like he knows what Eddie is going to say before even he does, even though neither of them really have a clue.

“Yeah. You’re my boy,” Eddie says, shrugging and sharply looking away from Richie’s burning eyes.

“Mm. Your boy and your friend,” Richie says as he leans in closer, up on his elbows so his face is hovering over Eddie’s.

“Yeah. My boy and my friend.”

 _“And_ your fiancé,” Richie points out with a shit-eating grin.

Eddie rolls his eyes, “I never said yes, dimwit.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I wore you down,” he responds, voice quieter than necessary considering the white noise coming from the air purifier. Eddie can’t help himself—he grins. And that one slip of a facial expression is more telling than anything else has been; it’s the acceptance of Richie’s proposal that Beverly tried to goad him into giving.

Richie swoops in to kiss him deeply, passionately, and Eddie can’t believe he has to throw this comfort all away in the morning. He digs his nails into Richie’s back and scrapes down, thinking maybe if he still has Richie’s skin under his nail beds when he leaves, there’s no possible way for him to forget this feeling.

Richie moans softly into Eddie’s open mouth as when knots his fingers into Richie’s hair and pulls sharply. “Rich,” Eddie pants out, begging.

“What do you want, baby?” Richie asks, pulling back slightly so he can rake his liquid blue eyes over Eddie’s body drenched in a familiar pink light. “Tell me, and it’s yours.”

Not even Eddie is sure what he wants anymore, but he wouldn’t tell Richie even if he did. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that Richie would try to get it for him, and he can’t have that kind of debt and bloodshed weighing on him. Neither of them can.

“Whatever you want,” Eddie responds breathlessly, aiming to sound affected by their proximity rather than the words. The flicker in Richie’s eyes show that he took it as both.

“I could have given you the world.”

And Eddie knows Richie is just referencing James Bond. He even uses his best Elektra King Voice to soften the blow. They’re been doing this bit since they were 12 years old—a way to say what they mean without needing to mean what they say. But it still hurts. No, fuck _hurts,_ it cuts deep like a wound he’s isn’t sure he’ll ever heal from. He feels like he’s merely a beating, bleeding heart laid out underneath Richie just waiting to stay in his hands when they both know he has to drive away in a few hours. But Eddie had been telling the truth; all he wants is whatever Richie is willing to give him.

He has taken so much from this boy: stolen words in the dead of night pressed up against the back of his neck, kisses, touches, love, love, _lovelovelove_ he could never return. Not the right way, at least. Not out loud.

So Eddie does what he knows he needs to do. He finishes the line, because Richie is waiting for him. Richie is always left waiting for him. “The world is not enough.”

He wonders if Richie would’ve followed him anywhere if Eddie had only committed to him in the way Richie wants him to, in the way Eddie is so terrified to.

Richie nods. “I know,” he whispers harshly, and it’s not the line. He’s broken the unspoken rules of this game, and Eddie knows now more inarguably than ever before that life is _not_ a book or a movie like he tries so desperately to convince himself. It makes life easier, to think he’s following some planned plot that’s already been set out for him. But life doesn’t make sense, there’s no overarching narrative, and he knows that now. There’s no scene; there’s only life and what he chooses to make of it. Maybe the line wasn’t what Richie had been waiting for after all. Eddie wonders if he even knows Richie at all.

But he wants to. And he wants Richie to know him. So carefully, tenderly, he reaches up with a shaking hand to tuck the curls that had fallen in front of Richie’s eyes behind his ear. They spring back into place, but when Eddie does it again, they manage to stay half-hooked this time. A metaphor for something, probably, but Eddie is exhausted from running circles in his mind trying to find meaning in things that aren’t there. He wants something he says to matter. He wants to finally mean what he says.

But when he tries, the words get stuck in his throat, and maybe that’s proof that he needs to leave home just as much as home needs to leave him. _Home,_ his aspirator that he wishes he could leave in his nightstand, alone, just like it’s always made him feel. _Home,_ the lava lamp still plugged into the wall, nothing left in the room to cast shadows with anymore aside from his backpack, the air purifier and the suitcases on the floor, all packed and ready to go. _Home,_ Richie’s smile growing from the few words he manages to choke out. _Home_ is the place where, when you go there, you have to finally face yourself.

“Hey, Rich. You know I… I…”

He wants to say it. _Love,_ stuck in his throat. _Love,_ lacing itself between his fingers and Richie’s curls. _Love,_ stitching the lining of their hearts with chainmail. _Love_ is the thing where, when you say it, you have to finally face the thing in the dark.

“I know, Eds. I know.” Eddie prays he does. He prays like it will save them, like it will make them invincible from the separation the light will bring. He wonders if he’ll ever see Richie again before he dies. He doesn’t know if it would even matter if he did.

Their smiles are both so sad, so lost, when Eddie replies with, “Don’t call me that.”

Eddie thinks that sometimes, the saddest stuff life is made of isn’t the permanence of death, but the tragedy of losing something you can still have.

Eventually, morning comes, and Richie untangles himself from where he was pressed up against Eddie’s back and leaves with the darkness. Eddie has already packed his lava lamp in the remaining newspaper in his room and showered, trying to scrub off the guilt and sweat and cum and shame. He can’t manage to.

So at 7:15 A.M., Richie Tozier slips out of Eddie Kaspbrak’s bedroom window for the last time. He blows Eddie a kiss once he’s on the ground outside wearing nothing but the loose pair of sweatpants he biked over in, leaving his big maroon sweatshirt on the bedroom floor for Eddie’s long drive. Eddie leans against the window frame and catches the kiss. He presses it against his heart while remaining eye contact, and he hopes that action says more than the _love_ he can’t let escape his mouth ever could.

Richie’s eyes shine when he stumbles blindly forward, presses up on his toes and hooks his hands over the windowpane to press one last desperate kiss to Eddie’s lips. Richie glasses dig into both their cheekbones and their teeth clash and Eddie’s hand is fisted tightly into Richie’s hair like he has no intention of ever letting go and it’s _perfect._ Whatever perfection that’s left in the world is all poured into that one kiss.

But kisses always end eventually, and Richie pulls away first to grab his bike hidden in the bush.

“See you at my place later? To say...?" Eddie nods, unable to speak. "Okay. Bye, cutie,” Richie whispers before riding down the street with Eddie’s heart in tow. Eddie watches until he’s gone, and even then, he keeps watching, hoping that Richie might turn back. Hoping that he finds something to turn back for.

He doesn’t.

His mother comes in as Eddie is restlessly kicking against the sheet on top of himself, fading in and out of dreamless, exhausted unconsciousness. She’s chipper despite his upcoming departure, and Eddie finds out why when he tells her he needs to say goodbye to his friends before they go.

“You can’t, Eddie Bear,” Sonia coos in a voice that should be soothing, but only serves in grating his ears to bits, “we’re going to be late for orientation if we don’t get going now.”

“No! Ma!” Eddie shouts, voice cracking out of desperation. This can't be happening. He needs to say goodbye to everyone. He needs to tell his friends that he loves them, that he'll miss them all so much. He has to tell Richie—... he has to tell him _something._ It can't end here. This doesn't fit with the story he planned for himself; this doesn’t make narrative sense. “I promised them I’d say goodbye! They’re all waiting for me at—”

“My word is final, Edward. Honestly, I don't know why you even like those kids. You're going to forget all about them in a few months time anyway.” Eddie wants to thrash and scream and tell her he _won't,_ he'd _never,_ but he can't force the words out. “Now get in the car right this instant, young man.”

Eddie huffs, throws his backpack to the floor of the passenger seat his mother has open for him, and throws himself in angrily. Eddie presses his nose into the hood of Richie’s sweatshirt and breathes Richie’s scent in. He fists his hands in the material and holds on tightly like it’s somehow a substitute for the real thing. It’s not, and he knows that, but Eddie is very good at telling himself lies. His mother slams the door shut, checks the lock with a satisfied smile and makes sure Eddie’s seat belt is fully secured before driving away.

Sonia Kaspbrak may be cunning and manipulative, but she’s not very smart. So when they pass by Richie’s house on the way out of Derry, Stanley, Mike and Richie are all waiting for him on the front porch along with the Richie’s parents all holding mugs filled with coffee. Even Richie’s older sister Lucy who is home from college that Eddie’s never been particularly close to but likes very much is outside waiting to bid him adieu. Eddie sees Mike pointing excitedly at the station wagon half a mile down the road and they all rush up to the sidewalk, waving furiously. Maybe they think Sonia will stop at the sight of them. She doesn’t.

Knowing she won’t, Eddie quickly rucks his hand around the handle that controls the window. Once it’s down, despite Sonia’s admonishment, he leans as fully out the open window as the seat belt will allow him and whistles loudly with his hands. They all smile and laugh, even Maggie, Went and Lucy who have come up behind the three boys. All but Richie. That is the last thing Eddie remembers of Richie Tozier before he leaves Derry: him with sunken, bruised, tired eyes looking absolutely devastated as Eddie’s mother steps on the gas and skids past them.

Richie mouths something, or maybe even screams it, but Eddie’s too far away now and the sound of burning rubber is too overpowering to hear it. “Miss you,” or “love you,” or “fuck you.” All meaning very different things but all achieving the same overall result: _come back._ Eddie wishes more potently than ever that he could. Still, Eddie laments the fact that he didn’t catch Richie’s final words to him as his mother fists her hand in the sweatshirt and forcibly tugs him down into the seat.

He doesn’t hear the end about the endangerment he put himself in for a full 45 minutes, even as he falls in and out of a dreamless sleep.

By the time she’s finished ripping into him though, Eddie barely remembers why she’d started to in the first place. He’s felt like he’s been losing energy slowly, something leaking out of him like air from a balloon. And as soon as Eddie realizes what it is, he begins scrambling.

_Memories._

He grabs a notebook from the backpack at his feet and begins furiously scribbling everything down he can remember as it flashes through his brain like images more than scenes. Just stills, barely anything concrete, but enough.

_Did Bill like to be called Billy or not? What was Mike’s last name? What color were Bev’s eyes? What did Richie say to me last night when we said goodbye?_

Eddie writes down everything even if it doesn’t make sense, just fragmented sentences, rushed and hurried, but by the time he’s settled in his dorm and his mother has bid him an extravagantly tearful goodbye, everything in the notebook laying on his bed is just nonsense. He forgets what _Richie: cigarettes candy coffee_ means. _Bev = sunflowers_ is even more of a mystery. _Ben’s publishing dream?_ Who are these people? What could any of it possibly mean?

He forgets about the notebook in the flurry of unpacking, left inside his new nightstand. He meets his roommate, Tariq, and he’s nice enough, albeit a little shy. Eddie sets up the phone they were given in their room. It makes long distance calls which his roommate doesn’t seem as excited about as Eddie thinks he should be. Tariq says he has no one to call, and even though Eddie doesn’t really either, he still thinks it’s _cool!_ The future is _cool!_

Eddie is packing his bookbag the night before classes start when he finds it. Something he hadn’t seen before slipped into the front pocket. He pulls it out and finds a thick envelope with _Eds_ written on the front in the kind of chicken-scratch writing that usually makes Eddie’s blood boil. Tariq has that kind of handwriting. It doesn’t seem to anger him this time though. Instead, it makes his heart short-circuit and he holds his breath as he waits for it to restart. He wonders why.

Curiously, he opens the envelope and a tape slides out. _Richie’s Goodbye Guy_ it says on the front. Maybe that’s the same Richie Eddie had been writing about in his notebook! A storyboard for _something._ A movie or a book with no plot—just characters. Eddie _had_ been extremely tired the day of orientation. It’s in the same not-his-own-handwriting as the name on the front though. _Very_ curious.

He thinks about asking to borrow Tariq’s stereo, but decides to do it later and puts it on his small desk for safe-keeping, beside the pink lava lamp found in his suitcase. Tariq had snorted at the color, and Eddie just bullshitted something about a gift from his mother. In reality, he doesn’t really know _where_ it came from.

The second item in the envelope is a photograph.

It was taken on a Polaroid camera, not something he’d need to develop in a darkroom, and when it slides out, what he sees makes his heart crawl up into his throat and lodge itself there.

Instinctually, he darts his eyes around the room, but Tariq is still at the student union. He doesn’t seem to be shy with very many people except Eddie. Maybe Tariq just doesn’t like him.

There’s two boys in the photo. One is someone that Eddie recognizes from the photos in his suitcase, packed away delicately and carefully, more so than most of his other items. Eddie flipped through them quickly when he unpacked, but upon seeing no one he really recognized, he put them aside to deal with at a later date.

He quickly scrambles up and runs over to the closet and tears through the suitcase until he finds the small wooden box he kept the photos in. This time, he looks through the photos inside more slowly, and finds the boy from the Polaroid in the envelope in almost every single one. It’s undoubtedly the same person. But more than that, he finds a group of seven people wound together so tightly they look inseparable with himself in the middle, holding them all together.

The same boy with wild curls and a penchant for outlandish clothing looking down at Eddie in all the photographs they’re in together like a parched man who’d just found water. A fire-haired girl smiling sunnily at the camera in a dark yard filled with toilet paper. A boy with a staunch set to his mouth and bright eyes that betray his affection with Eddie riding around on his back. Two boys, one incredibly slight, ribs sticking out where perhaps they shouldn’t, the other boy chubby in a way that looks lived-in and healthy, holding hands as they jump from a cliff to a lake waiting below them. A boy with the softest smile Eddie has ever seen weaving a crown of flowers underneath a birch tree for the boy with wild hair, waiting patiently with a wide smile, his too-big teeth proudly on display.

Eddie asks himself again: _who **are** these people? _

The scariest part about all of this is not that he doesn’t recognize anyone, but that he doesn’t remember ever feeling as happy as he does in these photographs. There’s one of all seven of them squished together in an open field, a train passing by behind them, and they _all_ seem happy, unmistakably so, like their joy could be spotted on a doppler radar, clearing the sky of all storms. They look younger here, their smiles less strained, eyes brighter. Eddie doesn’t remember ever feeling that happy in his life. There’s not much Eddie actually remembers much about his hometown. He chalked it up to the experience just being altogether unmemorable, unremarkable. But this—these _friends—_ they don’t seem unremarkable to Eddie at all.

Derry _(that_ was what it was called, Derry) wasn’t happy. No, Derry is a bruise that Eddie can’t see. These photos press down on a phantom ache he didn’t remember he even had.

He looks back down at the box, and expects it to be empty when he comes to the last photo, but it’s not. He finds instead a necklace at the bottom. Cheap, just a black string and a charm on the end. A pegasus taken flight. Despite his confusion, it makes Eddie smile. He puts it on, tucks it underneath his shirt, puts all the photos away except the one from the envelope, and sits back down on his uncomfortable single bed.

The other person in the Polaroid is himself. This makes even less sense.

He and the disheveled, gap-toothed boy are grinning like fools, mouths pressed together, plush and raw as if they’d just been kissing. Eddie is wearing a shirt, bright yellow and too big for him. The other boy isn’t wearing a shirt at all. Eddie can see the pink lava lamp that sits on his desk now in the background.

To Eddie, it looks like somebody else’s photograph, even though he can see his own face in the frame clear as day. He wanted to believe that maybe this person with wild hair and wild eyes had been a girl, but his unmistakably flat chest is pressed up against Eddie’s. It’s a boy—without a shadow of a doubt. Eddie blushes fiercely and flips the picture over, throwing it face down on the bed so he doesn’t have to see it, even though his roommate is still not back yet. There’s a bit of writing on the back, the same scrawl from the tape and the envelope:

_Trashmouth and Eds, 1993_

Eddie goes to stuff the mixtape and the photo back in the envelope, but when he tries, several folded pieces of paper fall out instead. Despite his racing heart, he’s intrigued beyond belief, and unfolds the paper slowly and carefully. Even just the first word in that same heart-stopping handwriting makes him feel warm all over, pins and needles against his skin.

_Eds,_

_I know I promised I wouldn’t get all sappy on you before you left, so this letter is gonna have to do. Does it count as getting sappy on you if you’re reading it thousands of miles away from me? I sure hope it does. It fucking better, at least._

_Okay, so you’re perfect. Like, I know I don’t say that kind of dumb shit a lot. Or, I do, but I always do it in some stupid fucking voice. But I can’t do the British guy in a letter, so you’re gonna read those words as they were meant to be heard in the way I can’t say it but always want to: you’re fucking perfect. Like, sometimes just looking at you makes me want to scream, I swear to god._

_You’re cute beyond belief, and funny as hell, and the bite and fierceness you have is fucking unparalleled. I will never find anyone as perfect as you, and I don’t know that I even want to. I don’t know why I would. I really hit the jackpot when you agreed to be my boyfriend. Okay, sorry, when you agreed to_ _date_ _me. Whatever, you’re still my boyfriend in my head. My forever-boyfriend, even if us being on different sides of the country means we gotta break up._

_I’m not gonna ask if it does. Like I know I should, but I just don’t want to. Even if you go out and date a hundred other guys, I’m still gonna be pining away like a loser in sunny California, and that’s the way I like it. I don’t mind at all. I waited years for you to get yourself up off your ass and realize I’m yours. I don’t want to waste all that sweet time all for nothing._

_So I hope you were right in the end, Eds. I hope wherever you're right now reading this, you’re happy, because that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. Even if it’s years from now and you’re finding this letter I’m gonna weirdly put in your bag like a creepy stalker in some boyfriend box of yours, I’m still gonna be hoping you’re happy. Or, Boys You Dated Box. Whatever. Again, forever-boyfriend._

_I don’t want you to be ever on your own, but I know that’s how these things go sometimes. Either way, Mags called the school and got the number in my dorm for me like the angel she is, so call me if you decide you don’t wanna be on your own._

**_Love,  
_ ** _Richie_

The word _love_ has been written over and underlined about 20 times to make a bolded appearance, and if all the confusing words in this letter didn’t make him sweat before, that one certainly does. **_Love,_** _Richie._

Who the _fuck_ is Richie?

At the bottom of the page is a date (the day before Eddie left for college) and a phone number. Eddie stares at the phone on his desk (they’d decided to put it on Eddie’s desk because it was closest to the wall jack for the phone, not because Eddie planned on using it) for a long time before his eyes flit back to the picture, now face up. His own smiling face haunts him. He really doesn’t feel very happy at all. He takes the letter and the photo, walks over to the desk, and dials the number with shaking hands.

He waits for seven long, arduous rings before a voice fit for an announcer picks up.

_“Richie Tozier here for all your bedding and wedding needs. Who’s the lucky caller today?”_

Eddie’s voice gets stuck in his throat _(Richie, Richie, Richie)_ before his face screws in with confusion. “Did you just say bed-wetting needs?”

 _“No!”_ Richie laughs. _“Bedding, like fucking. And wedding, like mawwiage. You know—it’s what bwings us togebber to-day.”_

 _"Oh!_ Princess Bride!"Eddie cheers, shocked that he got the reference. He doesn’t remember how old he was when he watched that movie, but he knows he has, and he remembers Westley was undoubtedly his favorite.

 _“Yeah! You get me, dude. Wait, who the fuck is this?”_ And then the magnitude of what has happened hits Eddie like a freight train, gluing his mouth shut with fear. His eyes shoot down to the photograph clutched in his shaking hand.

“I… I… Uh…”

_“You’re gonna have to speak up, cutie, connection ain’t all that great I guess.”_

_Cutie._ The name runs like tender, familiar fingers down his spine as he begins to breathe heavily. How can he not remember something like this? This feeling, this— If he were gay, surely he would _know_ it, right? He’s kissed a boy _(Richie, Richie, Richie)_ at least. This boy. His forever-boyfriend. Trashmouth. Richie Tozier, for all his bedding and wedding and bed-wetting needs.

When he tries to breathe, he finds he can’t. He’s so dizzy. _Asthma,_ he thinks, dropping the photo and scrambling for the inhaler laying dormant and unused on his desk, _asthma attack._ He takes two grateful pulls from the aspirator one after another, and then buries his face into the hood of the sweatshirt he’s been wearing every day since orientation as the bitter taste sits heavily on his tongue. The unfamiliar scent lingering on his sweatshirt calms him far more than the aspirator did. And even though he can breathe again, he’s still shaking when Richie’s voice floats through the receiver still pressed tight against his ear.

_“You still there, cutie?”_

Eddie hangs up sharply without another word.


	18. November, 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is dedicated to my best babe [medvedevas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/medvedevas/pseuds/medvedevas) because her birthday is soon and she is my biggest fan and i am hers and i adore her.

_You remind me of home_  
_In a suburban town with nothing to do_  
_Patiently waiting for something to happen_  
_But the foundation is crumbling_  
_And becoming one with the ground  
__You’re wasting your life_

—You Remind Me of Home, Ben Gibbard

 

 _“Hello?”_ Silence. _“Oh, it’s my cute little stalker again! How are you doing today, Princess Buttercup? Well, **Prince** Buttercup...”_

It’s the beginning of November and Eddie has been calling the number from the letter at least once a week. He doesn’t particularly know why the disembodied voice sounds so nice to him, makes him feel a little calmer than usual, but it does. When he hears this man talk, he doesn’t think about his inhaler or how his roommate seems uncomfortable around him or how his mother calls him every other day. Sonia has berated him for racking up the room’s phone bill with all these long distance calls he’s been making.

_(“Who do you think is going to pay for this habit, Edward? The tooth fairy? I don’t know why you **insist** on calling that **boy**. He lives on the other side of the country for goodness sake! Make some friends at school if you’re so insistent that you need someone other than me, which I don’t know why you would. AT &T doesn’t make things cheap, Eddie Bear. 78 cents for the first minute, you know, and 11 cents for every minute after. You should’ve been over this ridiculous phase by now, goodness gracious...”)_

It makes Eddie a little nauseated that his mother remembers Richie more clearly than he can. He doesn’t say that to her, though. He doesn’t say anything to her but a litany of hollow apologies.

So Eddie got a job at the school library, because as much as it pains him to admit it, his mother is right. He uses nearly every cent on the phone bill. He gets $185 a month, and about $150 of that goes to the phone. A small price (okay, large, because his mother was right about AT&T as well) to pay for comfort, he thinks. And even if he hasn’t spoken since the first call, he still continues to dial the now-familiar string of numbers. And Richie keeps answering. He doesn’t need to speak to feel the comfort Richie brings him.

 _“I hope you’re well,”_ Richie says, and he sounds like he’s smiling. Eddie’s glad—he loves Richie’s good days; they make him feel like it’s easier for him to have a good day, too. _“I had a fantastic Halloween Dinner with a few of the guys from the improv troupe a few days ago. Well, I wouldn’t say it was a **real dinner**. We just got Chinese and gorged ourselves on candy and watched The Twilight Zone all night, but it was still the best night I’ve had since I got here. Have you ever watched that show? It’s my absolute favorite.”_

And this is one of Eddie’s favorite parts of these “conversations”: Richie can seemingly talk to himself for hours without Eddie needing to say a word. Good thing, too, because Eddie has no intention of ever speaking. He knows that probably isn’t a sustainable idea, but every time he even thinks about opening his mouth, his ears start ringing, the world blurs and he needs to take a hit off of his inhaler. He likes to use the thing as little as possible, so not speaking has become much easier than trying and failing to.

 _“There’s always this marathon on New Year’s Eve. I used to watch it back home with friends after the ball drop. At least… I think I was with friends… I must’ve been…”_ Eddie’s breath gets caught in his throat at the forlorn quality of Richie’s voice. Richie must hear this, because he pushes on regardless of the momentary loss. Or maybe it’s simply because he wants to. Eddie really has no right to make assumptions about why Richie does anything. _“Anyway! I hope your day is going fine. Not sure where you call from, but it’s a sunner here in Los Angeles, California. It’s always a sunner here. I hope it’s sunny where you are, too.”_

Eddie looks out the window. There’s a storm rolling in, the sunset lighting up the dark clouds with orange edges. It’s beautiful. He wishes he could share it with someone. _“Okay! Bye, buttercup!”_

The next call out to Richie comes a little less than a week later. He’s been feeling nostalgic for a life unlived, so he pulls out the box of photos filled with strange, cryptic messages about people who didn’t make sense. Sometimes, the box itself makes Eddie feel like he doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t know if he wants to throw it out or not. He doesn’t. Instead, he calls Richie.

 _“Howdy partner, Richie T here.”_ Silence. _“Ooh, hi, cutie. You know, as weird as it is, I’m starting to look forward to these calls. It’s like therapy but you pay for it.”_ He giggles, a breathy, happy noise, and Eddie cracks a smile at the sound of it. _“I mean, I **know** someone’s on the other line because I can hear you breathing.”_ Eddie sucks in sharply and goes silent, holding his breath. Richie laughs brightly at this, and Eddie’s cheeks burn at the sound as he lets the breath out slowly like air leaking out of a balloon.

_“It’s alright, sweets. I don’t always just like talking to a brick wall, although my roommate would probably disagree. My parents aren’t callin’ very much, tryna give me space they say, which is all right, I guess, but… I don’t really have any friends from home, you know? Or at least ones who call. There’s this one guy in all these pictures I brought from home. I have his photos up on my cork board, but would you believe I don’t even remember his name? It just says 'e'  on the back of all of them and the date. He looks sweet, though. I wish I had his number or something. It’d be cool if you were E. Are you?”_

The silence is deafening. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s Richie’s E or not, but the photo of the two of them kissing feels like it’s burning a hole through the bottom of his mattress.

 _“I’m gonna pretend you are from now on, if that’s okay. Okay. Well, bye, **E.** ” _ Richie lets out a little giggle, and Eddie feels so much lighter because of it. The feeling lasts him the rest of the day, carrying him on sea legs as he floats around his room, doing homework and cleaning up.

In this clean up, he comes across the tape again. _Richie’s Goodbye Guy._ He feels short of breath suddenly and slams the side table drawer shut once more to hide it. He heaves out an unsteady breath and decides to listen to it when he’s feeling a little less like vomiting.

That day comes exactly a week later. Tariq is gone, visiting his parents for the weekend where they live in Queens, or maybe Queensbury. He remembers it was in New York, but he feels like it’s justified that he doesn’t remember clearly considering he and Tariq aren’t really friends to begin with. He slips the tape in the boombox that Tariq uses to listen to baseball games on the radio. Eddie has never gotten the point of listening to sports on the radio, it’s bad enough to _watch_ them, but to not even have the visual? It feels pointless. But Eddie isn’t one to judge.

Regardless, there’s nothing in the tape deck when Eddie slips it in and presses PLAY. He walks back over to his bed when the tape crackles to life and Richie’s voice comes through the speakers. Eddie slams his shin onto the corner of his bed, not expecting to hear his voice. Eddie hisses harshly and pulls up his sweatpants to try to see if there’s a wound. He’d almost forgotten about Richie prattling on through the radio while he roots through his first aid kit until he hears him laugh. He tunes back in.

 _“So that’s why I did this. You know, 3,250 miles and all. Figured you’d want a li’l somethin’-somethin’ to get your rocks off to when we can’t have phone sex during the week.”_ Eddie’s eyes widen as he drops the A &D ointment with shaky hands and rushes over to the boombox as Richie’s breathy moans start coming through. He manages to press FAST FORWARD as Richie whimpers out, _“Fuck, Eds!”_

The tape starts screeching through the reel and Eddie’s chest is heaving as he does. His ears are ringing a little bit. He imagines the boy from the photographs spread out underneath him and his whole face burns hot with embarrassment. Jesus Christ. He wants to feel a little disgusted by the sounds, but the deep, throaty quality to Richie’s voice as he probably-fake-moaned runs circles in his brain for 45 long seconds, after which he decides that he absolutely needs to hear something else than those _noises_ on repeat in his head.

He prays that whatever awful joke Richie had been pulling is over when he resumes the tape once more. It seems to be, because Richie’s voice doesn’t come through the speakers, but Carl Wilson’s instead. Eddie doesn’t recognize the song at first, but as it continues, he feels like he’s breaking out in a cold sweat, even more so than he did when Richie was moaning.

 _If you should ever leave me_  
_My life would still go on, believe me_  
_But the world could show nothing to me_  
_So what good would living do me?  
__God only knows what I’d be without you_

He suddenly feels like someone is holding his hand. The feeling is so strong, so potent, that he looks down just to make sure that there _isn’t_ somebody holding it. There‘s not, but even as he flexes his fingers, the feeling doesn’t go away. An image passes through his head, just him, a boy and a girl laying on a bed with their feet kicked up in the air as this song plays. Eddie is braiding the hair of one of them—probably the girl, but he also knows the hair of the boy in the polaroid _(Richie,_  he tells himself, _that’s Richie)_  is _(was?)_ also longer than the boys he knows now are. Probably modeled after the late Kurt Cobain. It’s all a little hazy, a bit fuzzy, and he squints as if it’s going to make the image—memory, maybe—clearer. And yeah, Eddie realizes, this _is_ a memory. His heart crawls into his throat at the idea that this is one of the only things he remembers about his life in Derry, Maine aside from whistling with his hands down the street and a preternatural love of homegrown tomatoes.

He stumbles up as the tape plays on, forgotten, and dials the numbers that he has memorized by now. The phone rings so many times that Eddie almost gives up, knowing that if it’s almost midnight where he is, it’s 9 in California, and Richie has maybe gone to bed, or is hopefully out at a party, living the life that Eddie wishes he could live for himself. But then Richie’s voice croaks through the speaker, not from sleep, but almost like his vocal cords have been rubbed raw from crying, or perhaps even screaming.

 _“Hello?”_ Silence. _“Aw, hi, E.”_ Richie lets out a big breath that _whooshes_ through the receiver. _“It’s been a rough fucking day, let me tell you. My roommate went to visit his folks this weekend—the lucky bastard is from El Monte, so he isn’t far from them—and he’s just… I’m not his biggest fan, to say the least. Like, I was putting all my pictures up my first day here, and he comes in, looks at them, sees me and E in them, and the **first fucking words out of his mouth** are ‘What are you, a homo?’ Like this is the fucking Stone Age or some shit! It’s not even like the photos are some porno shit, either. We’re just hanging out in them, but I guess we do seem a bit too close to be friends. And I barely even really remember who that is, but more than that, like, jesus dude, it’s the fuckin’ 90s—who cares if I like dick or not? Or, wait, you could be homophobic. Are you? You can just feel free to hang up now if you are because you probably wouldn’t like me very much if so.”_

Eddie honestly isn’t sure if he’s homophobic or not. He’s never met a gay person, but pretty much everyone makes him uncomfortable, boys and girls alike. He doesn’t like to discriminate between genders when it comes to feeling nervous, he supposes. He’s been breathing heavily into the receiver for a while as the music continues floating through the room, and when Richie speaks up again, it’s with an obvious smile in his voice.

_“Okay. Cool, I’ll take that as a no. Well, anyway, when he left today, he kept telling me shit like ‘If you raw any dogs, make sure to keep that gross shit out of our room. I don’t wanna get AIDS,’ or whatever. Shit like that, you know, homophobic shit. And like, okay, I’m as vulgar as they come, but not like that. Not with anyone I think I actually have a shot with. And **especially**  not about guys. It’s too… I dunno, sacred or something. I guess he makes me just as uncomfortable as I make him. And it’s not even like I’ve ever brought any dudes home with me! I’ve bagged a chick or two since I got here, but nothing important. Just a night of mindless fucking to get the jitters out. You get it.”_

Eddie does not, in fact, get it, but he can sympathize, he supposes. Those moans play loops through his head, even over the music gone ignored for favor of Richie’s voice. The music, however, does not go unnoticed by Richie.

 _“Oh, what are you listening to!”_  Richie falls silent as he tries to listen, but Eddie must be too far away from the speakers because Richie speaks again with laughter in his voice, _“Pipe down, E, I’m tryna hear whatever you’re jammin’ to and I can’t with all yer yappin’!”_ Eddie snorts and gets up to walk closer to the speakers. _“Oh shit! I love this song!”_ Richie crows, singing along completely off-time with the song coming through the speakers.

 _“And I’m gonna be hiiii-IIII-iiiigh as a kite by then!”_ Eddie giggles quietly at Richie attempting to hit Elton John’s high note.

 _“Aw,”_ Richie coos, _“sweet. You’ve got taste, E.”_ Eddie wants to tell him _he’s_ the one with all the taste, but he can’t muster up the courage to.

The song fades out with the repetition of _And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time..._ and the tape ends, or maybe just that side does. Eddie doesn’t turn it over, instead dragging the phone back to the bed and curling the cord around his finger.

 _“So yeah, Jason’s out at a party right now.”_ Richie pauses briefly, then snorts. _“Jason. Jesus, what a preppy name... Anyways, the second he came home from his parents', he turned around and left. Didn't even invite me out with him. S’probably gonna come home high out of his mind. Which is fine, I’m **definitely** not one to judge, but… it just makes me wanna get high, you know, when I see how loose he gets. I love getting high. Like, probably way too fucking much. But I know I can’t. Or… I know I shouldn’t. There’s really no reason why I can’t… right? I mean, it’s college. Everybody experiments in college. And I’ve already done my fair share of sexual experimentation if the polaroids I **don’t** have up on the bulletin board are anything to go by.”_ Eddie’s eyes widen and his cheeks burn. _Fuck, Eds!_  plays loudly on repeat in his head as Richie continues to try and talk himself into getting high. _“There’s no reason why I can’t just buy a bump of coke off Jason… I’m sure it would strengthen our relationship if he became my dealer. Hmm...”_

And Eddie wants so badly to tell him that getting high, _especially_ if he likes it, is a terrible idea, but he doesn’t really know that for a fact. Maybe Richie can handle himself. He really doesn’t know as much about Richie as he thinks he does. The thought sinks heavy like a stone in his stomach.

_“I’m just so fuckin’ **homesick** , you know? I wish my mom would call and just knock some fuckin’ sense into me or something. I love her, she’s the best, and my dad, too, but with all the money she and my pops are shelving out for out-of-state schooling, they don’t have a lot of cash to spend on expensive-as-fuck calls. Like, Maine to California is an expense. I get it. AT&T ain’t cheap. I just… I miss ‘em, you know? And I don’t even think I want to go back there. Is that crazy? That I miss a place I don’t even wanna go back to. I’m sure I sound absolutely batshit… It’s crazy that you’re still here after all that. I’m sure this is racking up a fortune for you, me and all my yammering. But it’s just… it’s nice to know someone’s listening. You… You **are** listening… right?”_

Silence. Eddie wracks his brain for the right words to say, or the right way to show Richie that, yeah, he does listen. He listens to every word out of Richie’s mouth like he’s going to be tested on them at the end of the year. But in the end, he just starts whistling instead. Eddie’s always been a pretty decent whistler—one of his only solid memories from when he was a kid is how he would walk home from school and practice different whistling techniques—so he knows how to do so while carrying a recognizable tune. He chooses the first song he can think of, and since _God Only Knows_ struck such an intense chord with him, he whistles the melody of _Wouldn’t It Be Nice._ He can Richie softly singing along, off-time because of the delay but still calming somehow.

 _Comforting._ That’s the word Eddie’s been searching for to describe these calls: Richie Tozier is comforting.

He stares up at the pretty faces in the photographs hanging up neatly on his own cork board, and he wishes he could put up the one of he and Richie kissing. As he continues whistling, he reaches underneath his mattress where he keeps the polaroid with the letter and pulls them both up. _**Love**_  in Richie’s chicken-scratch handwriting screams loudly from the bottom of the last page. Eddie fingers at the edge of the picture and tries to keep from smiling as he finishes the song up, knowing he can’t whistle very well when he’s smiling. He can’t help it, though; the expressions they have in this photo always bring a smile to his face and fill him with a phantom happiness, like it’s someone else’s joy. It’s still nice to feel, almost like watching TV. Maybe it would be easier if he thought of Richie as a fictional character rather than someone with flesh and blood.

The scene has a hollow, empty sort of sweetness to it as he trails off due to the force of his smile, and as Richie speaks, Eddie wonders how he could ever forget someone like this.

_“That was nice, cutie. I love that song. I’m glad to know you’re here. Are you mute? That’d be cool, I've never met a mute person. Can mute people whistle? I wonder... Wait, no, you can’t be. Prince Buttercup, right. Selective mutism exists, doesn’t it? I think I heard about that in Bio or Psych or something. Ugh, speaking of Bio, the teacher I got for that class is a major prick. I barely remember any of the shit he says. One of my Improv friends is in that class with me, and he’s like this crazy cool science major. He just does Improv to kick back. He’s black, and my teacher is fucking awful to him. Like, for fuck’s sake, man, this dude is way smarter than I am and he's practically failing the class while I get stellar grades despite it only being an easy credit to fulfill my science requirement. It’s infuriating. Like, shit, this is California. It shouldn’t be like this here, too, you know?”_

Eddie nods down at the photo despite the fact that the actual Richie can’t see him. _“Okay… Well, I guess I’m gonna go. This was… This was really fuckin’ nice, E. I feel a hell of a lot better than I did before you called. I hope you do, too.”_ Eddie wishes he could tell him that he does, he always does, that he sometimes thinks he only feels good when he listens to Richie’s voice, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a thing. He feels more cowardly than he ever has before. _“Bye-bye, birdie. Get it? Because of the whistl—forget it.”_ Richie’s chuckle cuts off with a soft _click._

After that, Eddie calls him almost every day. Sometimes, Richie isn’t there, so he leaves a voicemail message of just him whistling different songs to let him know he called, even though he knows Richie doesn’t have his number to call him back.

Soon enough, Thanksgiving comes and goes. He doesn’t go back to Derry. He ignores all calls from his mother that weekend, his things scattered in boxes around him, half-packed, and calls Richie over and over again. Richie doesn’t pick up all weekend, and the next time he hears Richie’s voice is the Wednesday after Thanksgiving Break, and from the first few words out of Richie’s mouth, Eddie is nervous.

 _“Hello?”_ Silence. _“Hello? **Hello**?” _ Richie demands, voice vibrating with something strange and worrisome. It’s odd that Richie doesn’t recognize who it is rather quickly, considering he usually does within the first few seconds of silence. _“I don’t have time for this,”_ he sighs sharply. Eddie frowns and begins whistling _Wouldn’t It Be Nice._ _“Ah,”_ Richie snorts, and an embarrassed flush rises to Eddie’s cheeks at the derisive sound as he abruptly cuts himself off. He wants to ask Richie what’s wrong, but he doesn’t need to—he gets his answer right away.

_“Sorry, dude, I didn’t mean’a snap. It’s just, like, a weird night. I only ever get high on the hard stuff when I’m completely alone, and I usually remember to unplug the phone, but I must’ve forgotten because I… I was so **desperate**  all day, that as soon as I came in, I dropped everything and lined up some powder. Nothing bad even happened today. It was an okay day for all intents and purposes, but ha, I just feel so fucking alone all the damn time, y’know, even on the good days. But when I’m high, especially on coke, it’s like… there’s this weird euphoria cloud, you know. Like, I’ve been shaking for two hours straight, but I haven’t been this happy since… well, since the last time I did blow before the break. Like, you’re basically the only person I ever have real conversations with, and you don’t even speak to me. I don’t get it, E. Why won’t you just fuckin' **talk** to me? What the hell did I do? Fuck, I don’t want a paranoid high, but it’s getting there fast, y’know, and I just… I remember the boy from the first call, and I want that boy back. Where is he? Why won’t you give me your name, your number, fucking **anything**? Why won’t you just fucking **say something**?” _

Richie laugh comes out garbled and sharp like it’s being punched out of him. It’s so high-pitched and sounds so unlike the boy Eddie has come to know. He knows now for certain that, for Richie, getting high isn’t something he does for fun. This is serious in the worst way, and Eddie doesn’t want to watch the only person he considers a friend in this entire stupid fucking world drown himself in a rabbit hole that dangerous.

“How sick is it that you’re my only friend?” Eddie wonders aloud. His eyes widen at the realization that he actually _spoke_ and his mouth snaps shut, but then Richie lets out this _cry,_ something so indistinguishably mixed with relief and anguish that Eddie doesn’t know where one starts and the other begins, and he can’t bring himself to regret it.

 _“How sick is it that you’re mine?”_ Richie asks rather hysterically.

“Probably even sicker, considering you don’t even have my number or even know my name.” Richie laughs, and this time, he sounds much closer to the boy Eddie has come to consider so safe. “Think you can hold a pen?”

 _“I think I can damn well try,”_ Richie says. There’s some shuffling on his end and when it ceases, Eddie asks him if he’s ready. _“For?”_ And then Eddie lists out the number and extension written on the rotary of the phone in his room. Richie mumbles a few curses every now and then from his unsteady gait, but Eddie speaks slowly so Richie doesn’t miss his words, each number deliberate. A choice he’s making with the kind of false confidence that only comes when someone you care about is hurting.

“Read it back to me,” Eddie requests softly. Richie does, and Eddie lets out a satisfied noise when he gets the number right. “Congratulations—you now have the phone number for your very own friend-slash-therapist.”

 _“Thank you,”_ Richie whispers, and damn, if the gratitude in his voice isn’t victory enough, Eddie doesn’t know what could possibly be any better.

“Turn the light out and lay back, okay? Where’s Jason?”

 _“Out,”_ Richie hums, the smile apparent in his voice. There’s some static as Richie shifts, and then the line goes quiet again. _“You’re good at this, y’know. Talkin’ me down off the ledge. You sure you haven’t called when I’ve been fucked up before?”_

“I haven’t,” Eddie says, but Richie's right; there’s something oddly familiar about the whole situation that he can’t place. The innate urge Eddie has to take care of this person he doesn’t really know at all is far too strong for it not to be. He can’t put his finger on why, though. He supposes it doesn't really matter. He thinks about the polaroid tucked underneath his mattress as he shuts the light off, drags the phone over to his bed and climbs under the covers himself. “Talk to me,” Eddie whispers.

 _“How about you talk to me?"_ Richie hums. _"All these calls. So desperate to hear my voice, huh? Why don’t I give you a show?”_

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes, and he wants to smack Richie just a little bit for making him smile.

_“Don’t need to, sugar. You do that all on your own.”_

There’s a brief, comfortable silence before Eddie speaks again. “Get some sleep, alright? No class tomorrow?”

 _“Nah,”_ Richie says, sounding a bit far away. _“Call you tomorrow?”_

“Please do. If we hang up, you promise you’ll be okay?”

 _“Am now. Promise. Thanks,”_ Richie mumbles. _“Night, babe.”_

Eddie’s breath catches and his cheeks burn. _It’s just another nickname,_ he tells himself, _just like all the others,_  but he can’t force himself to believe something that so blatantly sounds like a lie, even to the steel-trap walls of his own mind. Even after Eddie hears the tell-tale _click_  that the line has been disconnected, he still whispers, “Goodnight, Richie.”

Eddie figures that Richie will forget to use the number. When 24 hours pass without word, he assumes Richie has no memory of the night before. He’s simultaneously relieved and disappointed at the idea. He doesn’t think anything of it when he picks up the phone distractedly as he does his World Civ homework the next night. Tariq hasn’t come back to their room, even just to sleep, for three days, and Eddie’s pretty much positive the dude got a new room assignment without alerting Eddie of it. Just left all his stuff to the weeds. Despite this, it still might be for Tariq, or maybe his mother, so he picks up because he knows if it _is_ Sonia, she won’t stop calling and then will berate Eddie for making her worry.

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” he says automatically, perfunctory. He always responds to his dorm’s phone this way, because often Tariq’s friends will simply hang up when they hear it isn’t who they wanted and call back later. He expects to hear the dial tone any moment. He doesn't. Instead, someone hums.

 _“Eddie Kaspbrak, huh? Sounds hot,”_ Richie says, his low, throaty, soothing voice making Eddie’s pencil bear down hard onto the page until the lead snaps.

“Shit,” Eddie hisses, scrambling for his pencil sharpener.

 _“Ooh, say that again, baby,”_ Richie teases.

“Shut the fuck up, Richie,” Eddie snaps, even more automatic than the response he gives the phone. He drops his pencil then, abandoning his search for the sharpener, and his eyes are as wide as saucers as he slaps a hand over his mouth.

He goes to apologize for being rude, but Richie's laugh cuts him off as he simpers, _“Why don't you make me, sugar? There's a lot better uses for my mouth than that.”_

Eddie snorts and drops his hand in his lap, fiddling with the phone cord, “Well, of course. What, with all your bed-wetting needs.”

_“ **Ha**! So this **has** been Prince Buttercup the whole time! I found a weird note next to my phone with this number and a bunch of poorly-drawn hearts around it. Was hoping I'd gotten lucky or something, but this is **way** better.”_

“You could never _be_ so lucky,” Eddie seethes, blushing fiercely and glaring at nothing.

 _“Ooh, babe’s got bite!”_ Richie crows, laughing when Eddie lets out a quiet shriek of frustration.

“Babe’s got nothing for _you!”_ But the force of Eddie’s schoolgirl giggle undercuts the intensity of his anger entirely, and shit, isn't this how he was supposed to be acting in middle school? What the hell was he doing instead? He sobers as Richie’s responding laugh fades, and gently asks, “Hey, how are you? You know, after last night?”

 _“Fuck, you must've called while I was high, huh?”_ Eddie hums noncommittally, unwilling to ruin the scene with lines that aren’t in the script. _“Shit, I guess that makes sense, what with magically having your number and all. ‘M sorry.”_

“It’s okay, Rich,” he promises softly. He doesn’t know why the nickname rolls so easily off his tongue, and it makes him a bit nervous. “...ie.”

Richie snorts, _“It’s cool—I obviously like nicknames if I’m goin’ by Richie. Uh, anyway, I’m… fine, I guess. Massive migraine, but that’s to be expected. Usually happens when I get really slammed like that.”_

“Are you drinking water?”

Richie draws out a long hum, _“Mmm, no.”_

“Richie!”

 _“Alright! Whatever, I will, promise, **mom** ,” _ he groans, and Eddie sticks his tongue out, but it’s this action that forces him to realize that they aren’t _really_ having a conversation. To Richie, Eddie is faceless. Eddie doesn’t really even remember what Richie looks like when he isn’t staring directly at the photographs he has. Just a blank slate with wild eyes.

“You better,” Eddie says, much quieter than is probably appropriate for where the conversation has gone. “Take it easy tonight, alright?”

_“Well, I’m supposed to be going to this party…”_

“Richie…” Eddie sighs. He knows he has no stake in the game, so he doesn’t say anything more. They’re not even really friends. God, Richie doesn’t even really _know_ him. But despite not always remembering what he looks like, he can’t forget how happy Trashmouth and Eds seemed in that polaroid. He doesn’t remember the expressions they wore so much as the feeling he gets when he looks at the picture now. He wonders if maybe it was just a trick of the lens, or if they really did make each other that happy.

_“I mean… I **could** stay in. You know, if I had a reason to…”_

Eddie chuckles, shaking his head. “Is this your incredibly unsubtle way of asking me to call you tonight?”

_“ **May-** be…”_

“God, you’re infuriating, I should’ve never said a word,” Eddie says, laugh now full-blown. “Fine. You call me, though. These calls are a fucking fortune.”

 _“Yay!”_ Richie cheers, trailing off into a fit of giggles that Eddie joins in with. _“Okay, I have to ask: how did you even get this number in the first place? Did some gal I dipped and ditched leave it etched into a bathroom stall in… Wait, where are you even from?”_

“I, uh…” Eddie wants to tell him about the polaroid—desperately—but he doesn’t. He can’t. He doesn’t even know what he would say if he did. “It was in my box of stuff from home. Pictures and trinkets from old friends. I go to school in Maine.”

_“Oh, that’s crazy! I’m **from** Maine! The place is so fucking boring, I’m sure I know your town. Whereabouts?”_

“I’m a freshman at the University of Maine,” Eddie says, dodging the question of where he’s from rather expertly if you ask him.

 _“So we were probably in the same graduating class! I’m a freshman, too, but at UCLA.”_ Eddie just hums in acknowledgement, not trusting anything that could possibly come out of his mouth right now. _“Maine's pretty small, we must’ve grown up together or something. That’s buck-fucking-wild.”_

“Yeah. Wild,” Eddie repeats, hoping Richie will drop it. Of course, he doesn’t.

_“Maybe we **were** friends from home. Like, childhood friends.”_

“Maybe,” Eddie says, only trusting himself now to parrot Richie’s words back to him instead of give him anything concrete. Saying nothing at all is better than getting his lines wrong.

 _“I’m not sure about that, though… I think I’d remember a voice like yours.”_ Eddie smiles, glad Richie can’t see it, and he feels his shaky hands settle where they rest against his stomach. He lets the phone hook into the crook of his shoulder as he presses his ear against it and slouches back in the desk chair as Richie ponders, _“Eddie Kaspbrak… Hmm…”_ and Eddie feels more at home his own name than he can ever remember feeling before when it comes out of his ghost-boy’s mouth. When Richie says it, it feels less like the alias of a character he’s been going by, and more like who he really is. Who he wants to be. Not _Eddie-Bear,_  his mother’s caged bird, not _Kaspbrak, Edward,_  the only name he ever hears anymore read off an attendance sheet from the front of a lecture hall. Just _Eddie._  Just a boy with real memories and real friends and real feelings. Not a specter haunting his own life.

He wonders why he can’t remember his name ever coming out of Richie’s mouth before. He wonders when home stopped being his address in Derry, but Richie Tozier’s disembodied voice instead. He wonders why he can’t remember _home_ at all.


	19. January, 1995

_I spoke to you in cautious tones, you answered me with no pretense_  
_And still I feel I said too much; my silence is my self-defense_  
_And every time I've held a rose, it seems I only felt the thorns_ _  
__And so it goes, and so it goes, and so will you soon I suppose_

 _But if my silence made you leave, then that would be my worst mistake_  
_So I will share this room with you, and you can have this heart to break_  
_And this is why my eyes are closed; it’s just as well for all I’ve seen  
__And so it goes, and so it goes, and you’re the only one who knows_

 _So I would choose to be with you; that’s if the choose were mine to make  
_ _But you can make decisions, too, and you can have this heart to break_

—And So It Goes, Billy Joel

 

Eddie has been back in Derry for eight days when it happens.

His Holiday Break so far has been just as he expected it would: boring and vaguely painful. He got back on December 23rd and was barely in his house for twelve hours before being dragged out to Christmas Eve Mass. His mother has been going to an unfamiliar church just barely outside city limits since Eddie left for school. The congregation was solemn and contemplative in a way that Eddie felt didn’t exactly fit the joy of the holiday, but considering he doesn’t identify much with Christianity, he doesn’t think he’s one to judge.

His mother has always been insistent on having the house decorated to the brim, and perfectly, despite all of the decorations being fake so as to avoid irritating Eddie’s ‘allergies’, but usually Eddie is home to put everything up. This year, Eddie was away at school for most of December, so the only thing up is just their tiny, pathetic tree that they keep locked in the basement that Sonia forced Eddie to bring up the second he got in the door. It’s just a big hunk of plastic with colorful LED lights at the tip of the faux-needles—nothing to write home about whatsoever—but decorating it with plastic ornaments (“The glass ones could shatter and impale you, Eddie!”) kept her happy for a few hours, so Eddie didn’t mind.

Christmas Day was uneventful—Eddie, of course, bought his mother a present, because after the years of her conditioning when he was a child that he needed to get her a gift (“And not just a coupon book for chores! You have to do those already!”) or he wouldn’t get his, he learned that tit is for tat in this world. Nothing comes for free, not even love. Anything, absolutely anything, can be bought.

So he saved the little bit of cash he got from working at the library that didn’t immediately go to paying off his exorbitant phone bill (just like he used to do with his scant babysitting cash) and bought her a crystal bracelet and a nice bottle of wine. She was floored and presented him with several hand-knit pairs of socks and a few sweaters that would be too small for someone half his size. She excuses the measly nature of the gifts by guilting Eddie about how much money UMaine is costing her.

He thanks her anyway. They’ll definitely keep some kids at the homeless shelter in Bangor warm this winter.

He’s called Richie a few times since he got home more out of habit than anything else, but has gotten no response. The first time he called, a few hours before going back to Derry, Jason picked up, but when Eddie asked if Richie was around, Jason just snorted and hung up without an answer. What a dick. Eddie’s begun to hate Jason with almost as much vigor as Richie himself does. Whenever Jason picks up and Eddie asks for Richie, he always calls over to Richie on the other side of the room something awful like,  _hey, dude, your little fagfriend is on the phone. Keep it quick; some of us have actual_ **_girls_ ** _we’d like to keep the line open for._ It’s infuriating to say the least, especially considering Eddie isn’t gay. He and Richie are friends. That’s all. Jason can shove it up his homophobic ass if he thinks otherwise.

So what if he’s _actually_ used the message at the beginning of _Richie’s Goodbye Guy_ to jack off whenever he knows Tariq is going to be out for a few hours, despite telling himself he would just throw the tape away the first time he heard it? That doesn’t make him gay, that makes him hormonal. And maybe a tad sentimental. But certainly not _gay._

Speaking of the tape, he brought it, the letter and the polaroid all back to Derry with him, locked tight and secure inside his suitcase, hidden in the envelope he found them in and folded inside a shirt so neither Tariq back at college nor his mother would accidentally stumble upon them. But when he caught his mother snooping through his things a few days prior, he took to keeping the photo in his pocket at all times. The letter and the tape he could explain away with plausible deniability, but the photo? He’s in it, too, and there’s no disguising his plain affection and attraction for the other boy in it. 

Well, _past_ attraction and affection. Maybe he was gay before, but he certainly isn’t now. It just doesn’t make sense. He’d know if he was, and he’s not. It’s cool that Richie is (or, well, Richie’s somewhat-gay, as he’s said, but the point still stands). He’s not homophobic like Jason is. He just knows what he is and what he’s not, and he’s _definitely_  not gay. He may not be attracted to women, but that makes him more asexual than anything else. He has no interest in sex. _Especially_  not with boys.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and he bundled up and walking aimlessly through the town after his mother had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for the ball to drop. The reason Eddie started wandering around Derry in the first place is because he remembers. Not enough to make shape to anything concrete, but he sees a vague form of what he used to have here. What he had with Richie.

And it’s all because of a stupid carving on the side of his bookcase.

It’s simple, really. Almost elementary in nature. Eddie went up to his room after his mother had fallen asleep to Dick Clark at 9:30, and noticed that etched into the grain of his wooden bookcase is a little message. Just _RT + EK_ with a heart around it, and the crude nature of the carving leads Eddie to believe it was done with a key rather than a knife of some sort. But that alone isn’t what jogs Eddie’s memory. Not exactly. 

What forced Eddie’s memory was the angle at which he noticed the carving. He was lying on his bed with his head hanging off the edge and his feet propped up against the wall, eyeing the room listlessly when he spots it. He couldn’t exactly read what’s written from upside down, but it still made his heart lurch and catch in his throat. He immediately flipped around to read it properly, but for a reason he still can’t explain, he already knew it would be a message from Richie. Richie, who Eddie has a photo of him kissing zipped tight in his pocket. Richie, whose number Eddie has memorized.

Richie, his first kiss. Richie, his first time. Richie, his first love. Richie, his only love. Richie, Richie, _fuck,_ Richie.

He doesn’t remember everything, nor does he think he wants to. If he’d been repressing so much about his childhood, he knows there’s probably a damn good reason for it. A lot of things are still hazy, but he can remember a little bit about the people from that group photo (The Geek Squad? The Nerd Herd? Something stupid like that), and he can remember _a lot_ of things about Richie. The way he would throw his head back when he laughed; how endeared he was by rabbits and dogs and all things fluffy; his singing voice, his real one, not the one he uses just to get a laugh, all raspy and throaty with a high timbre that made Eddie’s toes curl; the _other_ ways in which he made Eddie’s toes curl, and the ways he made Richie’s do the same. Watching Richie dig that little message into his bookcase while he hung upside down off the bed, kicking his feet in the air as he lightly scolded him.

He stared dumbfounded at the carving for a long time as memories swam around his head, murky but still undeniable, before coming to a stunning realization: _fuck. I_ **_am_ ** _gay. Oh, shit._

This made him immediately stumble down the stairs and leave the house, terrified that his mother would wake up from a sound sleep from how loudly he was broadcasting thoughts about his new-newfound sexuality. He’s had this realization before. Of course he has—he must’ve if he spent so much time with Richie’s dick in his mouth—but that’s not one of the things he remembers. The coming out of the closet part. He isn’t even sure if anyone knows aside from Richie. If that group did. The… Losers? Maybe. All of which has lead him here, teeth chattering as he walks down the vaguely unfamiliar streets. 

It’s an ugly town, he thinks as he wanders. Not much about it is aesthetically pleasing or attractive. He feels a little funny walking around, like his feet are walking for him in a direction he’s already been accustomed to. It seems like his feet would have worn holes through the concrete from how many times he’s made this trip with the purposeful way he’s walking, though nothing looks familiar. Something is missing, some important memories, but he doesn’t know what they are. He isn’t sure he even wants to know. 

Eventually, he stops in front of a big white house. There seems to be activity inside—a New Year’s Eve party, maybe. Eddie wishes he could join them; the lights visible through the windows are yellow and warm and inviting and safe. There’s music and laughter floating out through an open window, probably cracked due to all the body heat inside. Eddie thinks he should probably leave, but he doesn’t. It hasn’t snowed yet due to an unnaturally warm winter (“Global warming!” he remembers someone from his past ranting. “We’re all going to perish under the increasing UV rays and the government is doing nothing to stop it!”), so he sits down on the frosted grass and watches.

He knows he should feel like a creep, but he doesn’t. This whole walk has been uncannily familiar, this specific house being the most so, though he doesn’t remember this part of town being one of his haunts. In fact, he doesn’t remember many parts of town being his haunts. He supposes he was just a homebody; it makes sense with all the hovering his mother does. Maybe one of his friends from the photos lived around here—surely, he’d remember where Richie lived, right? Eddie can vaguely place the layout of Richie’s room, but not much else. He doesn’t even remember Richie’s parents’ names. Was Richie close to them? Was _Eddie?_ It’s disheartening that he remembers so little of his life, like there’s a thick veil that’s very slowly disintegrating, bit by painstaking bit.

He knows he should probably be getting back, wake Sonia up and ring in the new year with her. He doesn’t. Instead, he sits and watches. Patiently waiting for something to happen.

And then, something does.

The front door, a dark red that contrasts nicely with the bright white siding with a thick (real) wreath hung up on it, opens and floods the porch and the front lawn with yellow light. Eddie is drenched in it, and he’s sure the figure in the doorway will notice, but they don’t. The porch light flickers on and the door closes and the person starts fiddling with something in their pockets. Eddie can’t tell their gender from this distance, but for some reason, he knows they’re a man despite the long, dark hair that tickles their jaw. He has a lean figure that Eddie can only barely make out from far away. Eddie rubs his palms together, wishing he’d brought gloves. Once this person goes back inside, he’ll go home and warm up. It’s not a long walk, and he doesn’t know what time it is, but he left around 11, so midnight is surely fast approaching.

The person flicks on his lighter and Eddie watches him—a man most assuredly Eddie sees now as he turns to lean against the porch rail—take a long drag from his cigarette and blow it out. He looks up at the sky, and Eddie doesn’t know if he sees stars or not, but he doesn’t look up to find out because he is absolutely hypnotized by this stranger. Spellbound, like a certain magic has come outside with him. Maybe _he_ is the warm, safe, yellow light from inside the house, because Eddie isn’t looking at the windows anymore; he only has eyes for this man. He’s got a maroon beanie on, askew over top a mop of messy curls that peek out from underneath the brim, an oversized dark peacoat, and black fingerless gloves. Most would probably think there’s nothing particularly fascinating about this man, but Eddie still wishes he could get to know him.

And then the stranger squints into the distance, adjusts his glasses, and cranes his neck forward.

“Is someone out there?” he asks, voice husky from the cigarette, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry from the sound as his body floods with anxiety at being found out. “If you’re a burglar, you legally have to tell me since you got caught.” Eddie snorts and the man’s expression brightens a little at the sound. “Who the fuck are you?”

Instead of answering, Eddie pushes himself up and walks closer, keeping his hands tucked deeply into the pockets of his jacket, fingering the photo he tucked into one of them to keep it away from his mother’s prying eyes and his head to the ground as he watches his step. He makes it to the bottom of the stairs and finally looks up to see—

Holy fucking _shit._

“Trashmouth,” Eddie breathes, shocked, eyes widening as he takes him in. The bruises underneath his eyes are darker than he ever remembers, but it’s undeniably the same boy. “You’re the-the…”

“I feel like it’s a little presumptuous of you to assume that my mouth is trashy without ever having a conversation with me,” he smirks. Richie. Fuck, this is _Richie._ The boy from the phone calls, the boy from the letter, the boy from the polaroid, the boy from back home. _His_ boy. Shit, Eddie should’ve known he’d chance running into him, especially considering how often he appears in the shoebox full of photographs from childhood in his closet back at his dorm, and how often he appears in the memories he’s been recovering for the last hour. The metal of the pegasus he always wears around his neck and tucked into all of his shirts burns hot like a brand against his skin and the picture in his pocket feels like evidence to a crime scene he stumbled upon accidentally. 

Eddie wonders briefly if he should just cut his losses now, apologize for interrupting the party, duck and run. But there’s something that roots him to the earth, something unnamed, a frayed, old string, perhaps, tugging on his heart and pulling him closer to Richie. The red thread of fate, he remembers an old friend telling him about; a Japanese legend about how the gods tie a red string around the ankles of two people destined to be and this string pulls them through life and eventually to each other. The string may twist and tether and tangle, but it can never truly break. Twin flames. True north. Soulmates. Eddie thought it was horse shit when he read about it. All of it is, especially the twin flame stuff. There’s stages to this kind of relationship, Eddie remembers being told by this same faceless friend who believed in soulmates wholeheartedly in a way Eddie never could. _The runner and the chaser,_ the boy had read, a voice and soul far beyond the age of any Eddie had never met. He hopes that friend is happy, wherever he is. What was his name again?

Why does any of this feel familiar? Why can he almost place that boy’s face, a sweet, round thing with rosy cheeks and kind eyes, but his name escapes him entirely? Why can’t Eddie remember kissing Richie at all now that he’s faced with him? 

Regardless of if he remembers or not, he wants to again. His heart starts to race at the mere thought and he breaks eye contact nervously to look around the porch. There’s two wicker rocking chairs, white to match the house, and a little side table between them with a book on it face down to mark the place and bending the spine. All of it is so familiar he aches with it. He looks back at Richie and takes a deep breath. All hope.

“You must be all talk, Tozier. I thought you said you’d remember a voice like this.” Richie squints against the darkness and then his face lights up in recognize.

“Holy shit, it’s my Princess Buttercup in shining armor!” He laughs, stumbling forward and nearly pitching himself off the porch to try to get closer. Eddie chuckles and rushes up the steps to steady him and meet him halfway, right at the edge of the porch. As soon as Richie finds his footing, Eddie rips his hands away from him like he’d been burned.

“I prefer prince, but whatever.” Richie smiles and reaches out to touch him again but stops halfway, hand hovering uselessly in midair.

“Hi, Eddie.” Eddie nods dumbly, still shocked that any of this is happening at all. “How the hell do you even know where I live? This is fuckin’ nuts,” he says, eyebrows screwing in. “Why _don’t_ I feel like I’m about to be murdered on my own front porch? I feel like I should definitely feel that way.”

“You shouldn’t,” Eddie chuckles, flipping out his jacket pockets. “No knife to stab you with, my pretty.”

“Hoo! You gotta _warn_ a guy before you get all flirty like that!” Richie exclaims while fanning himself, and Eddie just grins in response. Richie realizes he’s still holding the cigarette he’d been smoking and stubs it out on the porch railing and throws it into the bushes. When he turns back, Eddie sees that in turning out his pockets, he’d accidentally dropped the polaroid. He scrambles down to pick it up when he notices it on the ground, but Richie beats him to it, having seen it when he put out the cigarette.

“Ooh, what do we have here? A gift?” Richie teases, voice lilting.

“Give that to me, it’s not yours.” Eddie’s voice is vibrating with anxiety as he reaches for the photo but Richie pulls it out of reach and high up above his head. Eddie makes several attempts to jump up and reach it, eyes burning with unshed tears and cheeks flushed with shame, but he doesn’t succeed. Eventually, he gives up, huffing out an embarrassed breath, and lets out a final pathetic, “Please…”

“What’s so personal that you’re carryin’ it around with you, sweet cheeks?” Richie says, adopting a cowboy Voice, but he still sounds affectionate as he hands it back. “Your pockets aren’t the best place to hide your porn, but no worries, Eds, you can have it back. I’m a kind soul, I know.”

Both their eyes widen at the nickname that seems to slip off Richie’s tongue like running water, and Eddie feels clammy, feverish almost. Hot and cold all at once. Richie never called him that over the phone. Other nicknames, sure, but not—

Fuck. This is insane.

When Eddie scrambles to snatch back the photo, though, Richie has already looked down to see it face up. His expression turns gentle and his face has gone slack with some sort of wonder.

“Who…?” Richie tries, but Eddie has already taken the photograph back. 

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles, embarrassed to be caught carrying around a photo of himself and a boy _(this boy, his boy)_ kissing. Eddie doesn’t know if Richie saw that it was either of them in the picture, but he doesn’t have to wonder for long. 

“Was that me?” he asks, voice hushed. “In the picture?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Eddie snaps, but he shrugs and looks away all the same. How incriminating. He’s usually such a good liar. He doesn’t know why he feels stripped bare right now, all his defenses down, exposed and raw.

“Well, I think you did that _for_ me, if that photo’s anything to go off of,” Richie says, poking Eddie lightly in the ribs. He giggles, cringing to escaping Richie’s wandering fingers and pushes his hand away. He shoves the photo back into his pocket and when he looks back at Richie, he looks amazed. 

“Who _are_ you?” Richie shakes his head in slack-jawed shock. “None of this makes any sense. I barely remember anything about you, but that photo couldn’t have been taken more than a year ago by the looks of it.”

“I don’t really remember much either,” Eddie says, picking at his cuticles nervously.

“When do you think it was taken?” 

 _“Trashmouth and Eds, 1993,”_ Eddie recites, and then immediately regrets it at the look of delight on Richie’s face.

“Eds, huh? So that nickname _is_ a favorite of yours.”

“Don’t,” Eddie warns, glaring. “You know I hate that.”

“Do I?” Richie smiles, and Eddie doesn’t know why, but he knows he really, really doesn’t. Not at all. “It’s a cute name for a cute boy.”

Eddie blushes intensely, ducking his head and muttering, “Shut up.”

“Oh, but that’s not in my nature,” Richie laughs, “you know, being a trashmouth and all.”

“Can’t believe I ever saw something worth kissing in you,” Eddie grumbles.

“Mm, I bet I kissed you first,” he says, voice airy and feather-light. When Eddie looks back at him, his expression has softened into a smile. Richie’s fingers twitch at his side, like the impulse to reach out and touch Eddie is so strong, he has to physically tamper it. “Yeah, I can see myself waitin’ years just for the right opportunity to plant one on ya.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie prompts, eyebrow raising challengingly, and he feels like he’s doing something dangerous for the first time in his life. Ever since he can remember, Eddie has always done whatever is expected of him, whatever his mother tells him to. He was expected to stay in Maine, so he did. He was expected to go to college, so he did. But this is something that is wholly forbidden, in his mother’s eyes and to most of the world. _A boy,_ Eddie thinks wondrously. _I fell in love with a boy._ And it’s a crazy thought, the idea that he once loved this man that he knows next to nothing about now. But he feels like there’s a well of memories being held up by a dam just waiting to be broken down by a rush of water and flood him if only there were something strong enough to knock it down.

“Definitely,” Richie says, smile growing as he takes a step closer. He still doesn’t touch him, but Eddie leans forward anyway, swaying into Richie’s space and clutches onto the open flap of his peacoat for balance. There’s something about Richie that Eddie wants to be as close to as possible. A red string of fate, maybe, or perhaps Richie is just like that: magnetic. “I’m a lucky man to know that I ever got to kiss that pretty mouth.”

Eddie ducks his head shyly, a smile breaking over his face involuntarily. Richie touches his knuckle underneath Eddie’s chin and lifts his head back up to look at him. “Would you have liked that?” Richie asks breathlessly. “Do you think you wanted me to kiss you?”

“I think,” Eddie starts, but then he pauses when he hears pandemonium erupt inside as Richie’s guests begin counting down, “we spend our midnights on New Year’s Eve how we spend the rest of our year.” 

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” Richie takes another step closer so they’re toe-to-toe.

“How do you want to spend the rest of your year, Trashmouth?” Eddie asks. A smile breaks over Richie’s face and he ducks close enough so that Eddie can feel and see his warm breath over his mouth as it steams over his face in visible puffs. Eddie’s breath hitches and his lips part as he licks them unconsciously. Richie turns over the hand still touching Eddie’s chin to cup his cheek and stroke it with his thumb.

“Doing this,” Richie whispers, kissing Eddie’s brow bone. Eddie sighs, eyelids fluttering shut as _Auld Lang Syne_ begins playing inside and everyone cheers. _Midnight,_ he thinks as Richie presses his lips against the delicate skin underneath Eddie’s eye. _Happy New Year, Eds._ He works his way down Eddie’s cheek until he presses a long kiss to the corner of his mouth. Eddie breathes out slowly, trying to get his bearings, and slides his other hand up to rest against Richie’s neck. 

 _“Richie,”_ he sighs, and when he rocks up on his toes just slightly to press their lips together, Eddie knows why the road to this big white house felt familiar. He knows why he knew Richie was a boy without even getting a good look. He knows why Richie called him Eds before he even knew about the photo and why the frames of Richie’s glasses digging into his cheeks feels routine. He knows that they’ve done this before. The picture seems like a heavy weight in his pocket, loaded with untapped potential, but it only makes him feel weightless as he leans up higher on his toes to get a better angle, turning his head and sliding his other hand to clasp his fingers together behind Richie’s neck so he can deepen the kiss. 

There’s no fear coursing through him, no unidentifiable weight crushing him. The porch light flickers, but neither of them pay attention as Richie touches his hand to the small of Eddie’s back to drag him closer. Their chests touch and Eddie’s skin ignites every place they’re pressed together. Flames lick against his skin as Richie gently bites on his bottom lip and tugs. He cards his fingers through the curls at the back of Richie’s head, upending the beanie. Neither of them notice. Kissing Richie Tozier for the first, last, hundredth time is every Bible verse he’s ever heard, every hymn he’s ever sung, every church he’s ever step foot into. It’s soft, and it’s sweet, and it’s filled with unimaginable longing for how little they remember of each other, and it’s _holy._  

It’s _home._

And then the front door swings open and Eddie gasps into Richie’s mouth at the squeak of the hinges, his fist tightening into Richie’s curls in surprise. Richie groans, leaning his forehead against Eddie’s, and turns to face their intruder. 

“Mags,” he hisses, “I’m a little fuckin’ busy.”

“Eddie!” she shouts, ignoring Richie entirely and rushing towards them. A tall woman with strong features pushes Richie off of Eddie to scoop him up in a huge hug. Eddie’s arms wrap around her tentatively. “Hello, sweet boy! Oh, I was hoping you’d show. How’s UMaine? Are you enjoying yourself? Went! Get your ass out here!”

Eddie laughs as who he can only assume is Richie’s mother screams into his ear, and it feels more like family than one moment he spent with his mother this entire week. “I’m all right, Mags,” he says, despite the fact that he doesn’t even know her. He’s only adopting Richie’s nickname because he can’t remember her full one, but it makes her smile all the same as she pulls away, so Eddie figures it’s okay. “School is fine. Finals week kicked my ass, but…”

Maggie laughs sharply, like church bells being struck. Eddie wonders how he ever could’ve forgotten a family like this. “Can’t believe you didn’t even come in to say hello and instead spent the whole night out here macking on our scoundrel of a boy. For shame, Eddie!” 

“But how could I help it?” Eddie teases, reaching over Maggie’s shoulder to pinch Richie’s cheek. Richie grins and doesn’t even pretend like he minds. “With such a mackable face and all.”

“Oh, I’ve missed you so dearly, Eddie Kaspbrak,” Maggie laughs, pulling him in for another tight hug. A man stumbles through the open doorway, scolding Maggie half-heartedly for letting the heat out, but stops short when he sees Eddie.

“Well, my stars! Look what the cat dragged in!” Wentworth chuckles, dragging Eddie away from Maggie to hug him himself. He pats Eddie’s back firmly, fatherly in a way that makes Eddie feel overwhelmingly safe. “You little rascal, we were wondering if you were home for winter break! We told Richie to invite you to the party, but he was being evasive as usual. Maggie, wasn’t he acting like he didn’t even know who we were talking about?”

“As if we haven’t seen you boys holding hands while attempting to stumble down the stairs,” Maggie snorts, rolling her eyes.

“Guess I just wanted him all to myself,” Richie says, but he’s breathless, and when Eddie looks at him over Wentworth’s shoulder, his eyes are wide and his lips are parted in shock as he watches the scene before him unfold. Eddie feels like his own expression is probably pretty similar.

“Of course you did. Who wouldn’t?” Maggie chuckles, shaking her head as Wentworth lets Eddie go as a girl a bit older than they are with long dark hair and ocean blue eyes pokes her head out. Her face lights up when she spots Eddie on the porch.

“Hey, Kaspbrak! Long time no see! Sorry I can’t come out, I can’t find my jacket, but I’m glad to see our little family reunion is complete. I’ll see you at breakfast, all right? Keep quiet tonight, I need my beauty rest.” She winks and Richie rushes towards her.

“Get back inside, Luce, jeez, you’re such a fuckin’ pill.” Lucy runs back inside with a loud giggle before Richie can reach her. Eddie’s cheeks burn and he can’t hold eye contact with anyone anymore. That must’ve been Richie’s sister considering how alike they look, but why is she so blasé about all of this? Why is Richie’s whole family? 

“Sorry ‘bout that, sugar,” Richie simpers in a Southwestern accent, leaning his elbow onto Eddie’s shoulder. “But I think we all know the little lady’s correct in her assumptions.”

Eddie snorts, rolling his eyes and shoving him off, “Beep beep, Richie.”

Both their eyes widen at this phrase that rolls off of Eddie’s tongue like it’s nothing more than an impulse. And maybe it’s just that, considering the knowing laughs that come from Maggie and Wentworth.

“I have to say, we’re _much_ more excited to see you than we were this guy,” Wentworth says, breaking Eddie out of his staring contest with the wicker chairs in order to avoid any knowing gazes. He hooks his thumb behind him to point at Richie.

 _“Hey!”_  Richie cries, sounding genuinely offended. Wentworth frowns, not realizing he’d hit a nerve with that, as Maggie reaches over to pull him snug into her side.

“Oh, you know we’re only teasing, sweetie,” Maggie coos, ruffling his hair before tugging at Richie’s hand. “We love taking care of you.” She sends him a significant look Richie’s way that makes him duck his head. Eddie feels like, once upon a time, he could’ve decoded that silent conversation, but now he’s just left with confusion. “Now come in, guys, it’s freezing.” Maggie tries to usher them both inside, but Richie slips her out of her grasp easily.

“Actually, ma, I think Eddie and I are gonna go for a walk,” he says, and looks over at Eddie with questioning eyes to confirm this. 

“Yeah, a-a-a walk sounds nice."

“Okay,” Maggie smiles. “We’ll keep the light on for you guys.” She pulls Eddie in for another hug and whispers, “be gentle with him tonight. He needs it.”

Eddie frowns consideringly, but nods slightly as she pulls away with a kiss to his temple.

“Make sure you come in and see us before you head back home, all right, son?” Wentworth prompts, and Eddie nods in assent as Richie tugs at his hand to pull him down the porch steps.

“The guest room’s full up with my brother and his wife, but I’m sure Richie’ll let you take his bed,” Maggie says with a look of faux-innocence, like she knows everyone is aware that what she’s saying is a lie. Eddie can’t tell what that lie is exactly, and he knows with one look to Richie that he can’t either. “I’ll pull out the sleeping bag downstairs for him. What a gentleman our boy is.”

“Oh, you know me!” Richie laughs, but it seems strained. “Call up GQ! I’m the next Man of the Year!”

“Sure you are,” Wentworth chuckles as the door swings closed. “Happy New Year, boys.” The doors clicks shut and porch lights flick off and suddenly, they’re drowning in darkness.

“So much for leaving the light on,” Richie snorts, tugging at Eddie’s hand he hadn’t realized he still has a hold on. “C’mon.”

Eddie and Richie walk silently through the streets of Derry for a while, taking in the magnitude of what’s happened. Eddie feels like he _should_ remember more about this boy. He wants to. He wonders why kissing him felt so familiar, why Richie’s hands on his hips felt like they found their place in the world again, only ever waiting to return. He only has a few memories of their escapades together, but he knows there’s more just waiting to be remembered. It’s all so batshit crazy that Eddie doesn’t even know where to begin.

Richie, however, has some idea. “Tell me about you, Eddie,” he begs, voice quiet and pensive. “Tell me who you are.”

And Eddie doesn’t really know much about himself, but he tries to fill in the blanks for Richie anyway, and as he speaks, he realizes he knows more about himself than he thought. His favorite animal is the turtle, he hates the woods and loves the ocean, he’s afraid of the dark but not so much right now, his favorite bands are The Rolling Stones and Cyndi Lauper (which Richie thinks is a hilarious dichotomy) and his favorite movie is When Harry Met Sally.(“Not The Princess Bride?”“Shut the fuck up.”) He hadn’t even realized he’d known this much about himself until he started speaking, but once he did, it seemed the floodgates opened.

And they keep opening. “Mac and cheese is easily my favorite food. Food of the gods. It’s yours, too, right?”

“Yeah,” Richie breathes, looking over at Eddie sharply. “How did you know?”

“Um,” Eddie wracks his brain for an excuse, but comes up empty. Eventually, he mumbles, “Everybody loves mac and cheese.”

“Sure, if they have taste,” Richie chuckles.

“Tell me about you,” Eddie repeats just as desperately as Richie had.

Richie shrugs, “Isn’t much to tell.”

“Oh, that seems like a lie. With a personality like yours, I’m sure you’re just itching to tell me all about yourself.”

“I don’t really know much, though,” Richie sighs, looking down to the ground. “I don’t even really know who I am.” He seems so miserable because of this, and Eddie doesn’t want to see him so sad. 

“Well, I can tell you what I know about you,” he proposes, and Richie looks over at him warily.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Sure. You like horror movies, but hate anything to do with werewolves. Halloween is your favorite holiday, though, because you say it’s like getting to dress how you always want to. You told me over the phone you were an elf this year, like from Lord of the Stringsor some geeky shit like that.”

“Okay, it's  _Lord of the **Rings,**_ and it's a classic!” Richie defends, but Eddie bowls over him with more, like the dam is finally snapping under the pressure of Richie’s presence.

“You’re trying to grow your hair out like Kurt Cobain and you go to every protest you can that you agree with, but still hate it when people call you a hippie. You hate the military especially, and were so fucking happy that Clinton won over Bush both because you think his accent is funnier and because you think he’ll do good things to help dismantle the shit Reagan did. You’re good at making pot brownies but suck at making regular brownies, which I don’t understand even a little bit. You’re good with computers. You like girls a little bit, and you like boys a lot—really, I think you like anyone who’s nice. Well, maybe not _nice…_ You like anyone who makes you smile and who laughs at your jokes.”

There’s a stunned silence as Eddie realizes he’s been talking for a long while. _He_ didn’t even know he remembered that much about Richie. Jesus. “You got all that just from a couple phone calls?” Richie asks, slowing to a stop and pulling Eddie with him. 

“I… I guess so…” Eddie shrugs, a little embarrassed to tell Richie all that he remembers. “Was any of it wrong?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t really remember the ‘92 election very well, but I did do a lot of protesting on campus, so what you said checks out. I didn’t even know I don’t like werewolves, but when you said it, I got nervous, so I guess you’re right.” He pauses and then looks up from his shoes. “I don’t ever remember make a brownie in my life, pot-filled or not.” 

“Oh, sure you do,” Eddie says easily, flipping his hand. “You perfected them Junior Year.”

Richie eyes widen and so do Eddie’s. How _did_ he remember that? “I… did?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says nervously, and then looks around for a distraction. “I should be getting back home, I’m fucking freezing. I’ve been outside for, like, two hours now. My teeth are literally chattering.”

“Bossy,” Richie snickers, but they start to walk back all the same. They had looped around a couple of side streets, and are only a block away from Richie’s house, and five away from Eddie’s. Eddie rubs his hands together quickly, trying to warm them up, and Richie steps in front of him to catch his hands in his own and blow against them. His warm breath feels wonderful against Eddie’s cold fingers and he scratches his nails against Richie’s palm lightly in gratitude.

“Thanks,” he whispers. Richie looks at him from underneath his eyelashes and presses his lips against Eddie’s knuckles. His mouth is warm and his lips are chapped and Eddie feels like he’s about to catch fire despite the frigid January air.

“Welcome,” Richie responds just as quietly, voice vibrating against Eddie’s skin. He starts pulling Eddie down the street without releasing his hand. “C’mon, before your mom throws a hissy fit.” 

“How do you… know she’d throw a fit?” Eddie asks, wonderstruck.

“I don’t really know…” Richie marvels, shaking his head. “I don’t really think I know much of anything right now.”

“Well, tell me what little you do know,” Eddie says, squeezing Richie’s hand.

“I… I know I’m an addict,” he heaves out shamefully, like he’s dragging the words out of a dark hole. Eddie nods silently—he knew this, too, but he felt it was impolite to say and that it wasn’t as quintessential to Richie’s personality as the other things he knows. “I went through this crazy withdrawal when I came home and my parents were so fuckin’ worried. They almost brought me to the hospital, but I begged them not to. I know that I like being high more than I like anything else. I know that I like you without even really trying to, and I know that given the opportunity, I could like you even more than the drugs.” Eddie smiles bashfully, but Richie continues on without noticing. “I know that I’m scared I’ll forget this all when we leave in a few weeks and just go back to being strung out all the time. I know that I feel safe here with you. I know that I don’t want you to have to go home.”

“To my mom’s house or to college?”

“Take your pick,” Richie shrugs, his chuckle forlorn. “It’s all leaving.”

“I don’t want to be away from you,” Eddie says, picking at his chapped lips with the hand not holding Richie’s. The truth of this statement echoes cavernously around them. “But I don’t really know how to achieve that, either.”

“You could come with me,” Richie suggests, voice deceptively light despite the heaviness of the request, and it feels like an ancient battle they’ve had before.

“I can’t follow a virtual stranger across the country,” Eddie snorts, shaking his head. “My mom would order a hit on you just to bring me back.” 

“I’ve always wanted to die by assassin, so it’s cool,” Richie shrugs, which makes Eddie laugh. “And… are we really strangers?”

“I… Sort of…” Eddie worries, seeing the lights of the Tozier house come into view.

“That salacious photograph in your pocket would say otherwise, m'dear.” Eddie sighs, feeling caught between a rock and a hard place. “Will you at least stay the night? I’m sure the sleeping bag is all that and a bag of chips.” 

“I thought your mom said you were a gentleman. You’re not even gonna offer me the bed? Cheap date,” Eddie laments.

“Hey, I need a good night’s rest, Eds, I’m a growing boy,” Richie smiles. “You wouldn’t know, you stopped growing at age 15.” 

 _“Hey!”_ Eddie yells, a little louder and sharper than strictly necessary due to the nervousness caused by how Richie remembered that when Eddie didn’t. He swats at Richie’s arm. “I need my beauty sleep just as much as you do! This shit doesn’t just magically happen!” 

“Liar,” Richie teases, leaning in close with a smirk. _Man, he sure is cute,_  Eddie thinks. _I lucked out._  “You’re a cutie all the time, no matter what.” He ducks to swiftly peck Eddie’s blushing cheek and then pulls him across the lawn while he mutters nonsensically. _Cutie._ They walk up the stairs together where the porch light has com back on. Richie turns to face him. “Is this where you bid me adieu? Do I at least get a goodnight kiss for my troubles?” 

“Oh, and taking a walk with me is so troublesome for you?”

“I didn’t say that,” Richie grins, and fuck, Eddie _really_ doesn’t want to go.

“Maybe I can set my watch to wake me up early…” Eddie muses. Richie bounces excitedly, already opening the door to drag Eddie inside.

“‘M not taking no for an answer, then,” Richie says, shutting and locking the door. “Ma? You still up?”

Silence. The living room light is still on, the driveway is vacant of cars, and the room is in disarray from the party. Eddie looks around and wants to say it’s entirely unfamiliar, but it isn’t. The plant in the corner, the big tan leather couch, the victrola near the dining room—all of it seems like a scene from the dream he’s had a few times back at college: a house full of life, a _home_ more than anything else. The TV is still quietly playing Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, and Richie picks up after his guests a little bit, throwing away paper plates and plastic cups. Eddie helps out of his own volition as they putter around the room together quietly. It’s incredibly domestic, and Eddie blushes like something far more scandalous is going on than there is. Before long, the room is almost clean. It’s completely silent since the TV has been turned off, and Eddie has to escape the intensity of everything he’s feeling.

“C’mon,” Eddie urges quietly, tugging Richie towards the stairs, “I wanna go watch a movie.”

“How do you even know I have a TV in my room?” Richie teases. He looks back at the sleeping bag his mother left out for him. He turns back, grinning. He doesn’t go back for it.

“You seem like the type,” is all Eddie says, but he knows he’ll find a tiny tube television before he even steps foot through the door. Eddie leads them down the hall and to the last door at the end. He puts his hand on the knob, but before he opens it, he looks back to Richie for confirmation. Richie smiles and nods.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he whispers. Eddie turns the knob and pulls them inside, and what he sees when Richie flicks the lamp light on is utterly incredible. The room itself isn’t anything special, just a few posters scattered around that Richie must not have bothered to bring with him (and of course, a small tube television covered in glow-in-the-dark stars), but the room itself isn’t the striking part. It’s the feeling he gets that he’s meant to be there, that maybe this house, this room, is the only safe place left in the entire town. Eddie pokes around a little as Richie flops onto the bed and grabs the remote, waiting for the TV to warm up.

“I thought you wanted to watch a movie, Eds,” Richie chuckles from his place on the bed.

“I do. Turn it to Turner Classic, I’m sure there’s something good on,” Eddie says, putting down a figurine of Garfield wearing a sombrero.

“Oh, no way!” Richie cheers as he flips through channels. _“Twilight Zone_ marathon! Of course! There’s one every year!” Eddie rolls his eyes and walks over to the bed. He goes to climb up beside Richie, but Richie points at the light switch before he can.

“I’m too comfy to get up. Could you hit the lights for me, sweetheart?” He says it easily, just as much of an impulse as _beep beep, Richie_  had been, but he still flushes lightly at the name, clearly embarrassed. “I—sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie whispers, turning so that Richie doesn’t see his mouth turned up at the corners delightedly. _Sweetheart. Sweetheart,_ he repeats to himself over and over again. _God, why does that feel so good?_ The room goes dark and he carefully walks back over to the bed, toeing off his boots before climbing on. It isn’t too wide, maybe only a full, but Eddie isn’t too worried about that; he feels more comfortable with Richie on this lumpy mattress than he ever could on his brand new, queen-sized Tempurpedic one at home.

“Oh, shit, I forgot to take off my shoes,” Richie groans, reaching down to shuck off his slightly-damp chucks.

“Did you get the bed all wet?” Eddie sighs, laying back against the pillows. “Ugh.”

“No _yet_ I didn’t,” Richie grins, whipping around to bear down on top of Eddie once his shoes have hit the ground with a silly grin and wide eyes.

“Jesus,” Eddie laughs, pawing at Richie’s chest lightly, unsure if he’s trying to push him off or pull him closer. Maybe both. Maybe always both.

“It’s Richie, actually. Did you forget already?” Richie pouts exaggeratedly, and Eddie shakes his head.

 _“No,”_ he says emphatically. _A_ _t least not yet._

“Good, ‘cause you’re gonna be screamin’ it in a little while,” Richie says, back to smiling mischievously in an instant.

“Oh, yeah? Who says you can make me scream? I’d like to see you try.” He doesn’t know where any of this is coming from; he doesn’t really remember being this flirtatious before, at college or with what he remembers of the time he spent with Richie. But the idea that he’s wanted by this beautiful, breathtaking boy above him is too exciting of a prospect to not see through.

“So would I,” Richie smirks, ducking in close enough to brush their noses together lightly. “Mm, god, bet you taste so good. All sweet and clean and wonderful, just like you."

“You think I’m clean?” Eddie raises a challenging eyebrow despite the breathy nature of his tone.

“Hmm, I dunno, are you?” 

“I don’t…” Eddie pauses. He thinks about the word _clean_ and how he's wanted to be nothing but to be that for his entire life. And then he looks back at Richie, hovering over him with dark eyes, and he wonders if maybe he wants Richie more than he could ever want to be clean. “I don’t really know. But I’m willing to find the fuck out.”

Richie’s breath hitches, and when he releases it, it’s with a soft groan as he presses their lips together. It turns heated rather quickly, and soon, they’re both panting as they come apart. Richie’s eyes are burning as they take Eddie in, and he shakes his head. 

“I can’t believe I ever forgot that,” Richie sighs. Eddie smiles brightly at the implication that Richie remembers at all.

“I can’t either.” He runs his fingers delicately over the knobs of Richie’s spine. “Wanna make some new memories?”

“Absolutely,” Richie grins, ducking down to kiss Eddie’s neck a bit feverishly, like he’s afraid something is chasing them and he has to do this before it gets them. But nothing is loitering in the darkness, and time has been politely told to wait until morning. Eddie doesn’t want to rush. If this is really all they get, he wants to make it fucking _count._

So he strips Richie down with unnecessary tenderness, limbs moving slow and steady like molasses as he hovers above him, Maggie's warning well heeded. Richie’s breath is coming out in indelicate heaves by the time Eddie is finished, and when he starts sucking marks into Richie’s skin as he works his way down his chest, flicking his tongue against his nipple, he shakes his head and grabs the collar of Eddie’s jacket to pull him up. 

“Nope, no, too much,” Richie says, voice tight. “Gonna come before we even get to anything good.” 

“And that’s _my_ problem?” Eddie smirks, scratching at the downy hair on Richie’s chest just to watch him shiver. 

“You’re such a little fucking shit,” Richie laughs, knocking Eddie back into the bed gently. “Can’t believe this is still on,” he murmurs as he strips off Eddie’s jacket, “ya must’ve been hot as balls under all this shit.” He shucks off Eddie’s sweater and laughs at the fact that there’s a t-shirt under it.

“The t-shirt actually _keeps_  me from sweating, thank you very much,” Eddie pouts, crossing his arms.

Richie nods exaggeratedly, “Of course it does, darling.” He kisses Eddie’s mouth briefly until they’re both smiling into it, and then breaks away to take off the t-shirt, too. “So pretty,” Richie coos as he looks at him, but then he isn’t looking so much as _staring,_  eyes not roving anymore, but instead stuck at his sternum. Eddie looks down self-consciously, cheeks burning, with a, “What?” And then he sees exactly _what._

The pegasus necklace. It’s become so second nature to him, he’d forgotten he was even wearing it. He only ever takes it off to shower. He grabs it and hides it against his palm like he’s taken to whenever he gets nervous. It’s still a little cold despite how warm Eddie’s skin is. Richie shakes his head and pries open Eddie hand, but lets him continue holding it as he runs his finger along the grooves of the wings. His finger drags along Eddie’s palm, and it’s so intimate that Eddie finds himself shuddering.

“Cold?” Richie asks distractedly.

Eddie shakes his head slowly. “No.”

Richie looks up and smiles. The obvious joy in it is blinding. “Do you remember who gave this to you?”

Eddie shrugs, averting his eyes, “A little.”

“Oh, yeah?” Richie says, raising his eyebrow playfully without dropping his smile. “Who?”

“Just some guy,” Eddie sighs, pretending to seem put-out. “One of my many suitors. Must not’ve been a very good lay if I forgot him so easily.” 

“Oh, you think you’re hot shit, huh!” Richie laughs raucously, eyes lighting up as he flops down on top of Eddie to press a line of wet, messy kisses onto his neck and chest. “I’ll show _you_ a good lay!”

 _"Richie!"_  Eddie chides, high-pitched and giggling. Richie blows a raspberry into his stomach and Eddie lets out a full-body laugh, wondering how the _hell_ he didn’t factor in sex being _this fucking_ _fun._ So much for being asexual. He’d always assumed it would be this big, daunting, serious task that he would just have to power through eventually. But maybe that’s because, when he thought about having sex back at school, he compulsively pictured a woman.

Richie is very much not a woman, and this is definitely fun. Well, it is for a while.

Richie continues kissing down his stomach, and Eddie’s breath starts getting shallow the further he goes down and the less light-hearted the kisses become. The idea of Richie putting his mouth on Eddie’s dick is so strangely terrifying that his body becomes rigid with nerves. But Richie bypasses Eddie’s dick completely, nothing more than an accidental bump of his chin against the shaft, and he begins mouthing at the inside of Eddie’s thighs. His eyes flick up towards Eddie as he massages Eddie’s legs, trying to urge him to relax. 

“This okay?” Richie murmurs, the vibrations from his voice sending shivers up Eddie’s spine. He goes rigid once more from the stimulation and then melts into the bed.

“Yeah,” he sighs, eyes fluttering closed. He can feel Richie smile against his skin, and it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever felt in his life. At least, the most intimate thing he ever _remembers_ feeling. “Just… don’t…”

“I know. No blowies, no problem.” Eddie doesn’t know how it’s possible Richie already knows something so specific—Eddie hadn’t even known until it was imminent. It makes him a little wary that Richie remembers more than he’s letting on, but he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to say it aloud regardless. Richie removes his glasses and reaches up to put them on the nightstand before licking a stripe along the crease of Eddie’s thigh. His breath gets caught in his throat, and he has a feeling Richie’s tongue isn’t going to stay there.

It doesn’t.

Eddie tries very valiantly to stay as quiet as possible while Richie flicks his tongue against his rim, but he doesn’t do a great job. He’s never felt so many nerve-endings light up all at once. He doesn’t remember a whole ton about his life here, but he’s pretty much positive they’ve never done _this._ It’s fucking incredible to Eddie that he doesn’t have the constant loop of _dirty, filthy, disgusting_ rolling through his head at warp speed—just has _yes, yes, yes_ instead as Richie’s tongue works in and out of him repeatedly. But then he presses down on Eddie’s perineum with his thumb which stimulates something inside him that makes him bow his back and cry out. He starts shaking his head, muttering _stop, stop, too much,_ feeling way too overwhelmed to keep quiet.

“Are you okay? Shit, fuck, I’m sorry,” Richie sputters, removing every inch of his skin from Eddie’s to help him calm down, but that’s not what Eddie wants at all. He shakes his head and then nods, a confusing roll of his neck that makes Richie snort. He paws at Richie’s shoulders to try to get him closer. They don’t kiss because Eddie has his limits, and kissing someone whose tongue was just in his ass is one of them. Instead, they just hold each other for a while with both their cocks still rock hard trapped between them. 

“Will you fuck me?” Eddie asks once he’s calmed down enough. Richie’s dick twitches against their stomachs which makes Eddie laugh. He can feel Richie grimace into his neck, only adding to the humor in the situation. He slowly raises his head where it’s been buried against Eddie’s collarbone, pupils blown.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, fucking definitely, then,” Richie says, nodding fiercely.

Eddie giggles, “Okay.”

Richie does as he’s asked. Eddie doesn’t feel nearly as desperate as he had before when Richie finally pushes into him because he stretched Eddie out for so long beforehand, Richie almost became a second skin. When Richie is finally seated inside him, letting out soft words of praise almost compulsively, he doesn’t feel physically overwhelmed as much as he does emotionally.

Eddie's fully crying by the time he comes, a shaking, sobbing mess in Richie’s arms. It’s a bit embarrassing, but he thinks it’s probably justified considering their situation. It’s way less embarrassing when he finally opens his eyes after coming down from his high and sees Richie crying, too.

Richie is so worried about the intensity of Eddie’s sobs that he tries to pull out despite the tears running down his own cheeks, but Eddie clutches onto his shoulders tightly, begging him to finish inside him with a thick voice.

“You sure?” Richie asks tightly. “Y’already came. And you’re—”

“I know, dumbass, I‘m right here,” he glares through wet eyes, which makes Richie giggle just a little. “Just... please? Wanna feel you.”

Richie nods warily and rocks into him once again, albeit much more gently than before. Eddie’s breath is coming in quick from the overstimulation, but he glares up at Richie where he’s staring down at him.

“‘M not gonna break, y’know.”

“I know that, Eds. Just don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Eddie whispers, shaking his head. He smiles shakily and cards his fingers through Richie’s hair and tucks a few locks behind his ear. “You won’t.”

Richie sighs, nods, and begins chasing his orgasm earnestly, pistoning his hips for an endless minute until the rhythm becomes erratic and he comes hard with a low moan of Eddie’s name. Eddie doesn’t think he’ll ever hear his name sound so good again.

Richie finally pulls out, and they both tie off the condoms they had rolled onto both their cocks to minimize clean-up. Richie throws them both away and then settles back onto the bed with a rush of air. Eddie looks over to find him grinning happily up at the ceiling, but when Richie looks over at him, Eddie immediately turns his head petulantly to avoid his gaze. Richie giggles and rolls over to drape himself on top of him.

And that’s when Eddie realizes this scene is not a scene at all. It’s something harder, scarier, better: it’s reality. Ever since he realized the man on the porch was Richie, he’s felt a little bit like he’s floating through a dream. He’s been unable to believe any of this could be at all possible. Things like this don’t just _happen_ to him. Eddie Kaspbrak is a man who plays by the rules, who does what he’s told, who colors inside the lines. He can’t possibly be the kind of man who had a sordid romance with his childhood best friend who he’s maybe-sort-of forgotten.

But he is. And because of that, he needs to ground it in reality.

“What are we gonna do?” He asks, because of course he does. He has to ruin everything.

Richie sighs, “Must we discuss this now? In the afterglow?”

Eddie shrugs, combing through Richie’s hair with his fingers. “Guess not,” he mumbles.

Richie snorts, shaking his head and sitting up, taking the comforter with him to rest in a heap on his lap. Eddie tugs at it so it’s covering him, too. “You’re terrible at not getting what you want.” 

“I’m great at everything,” Eddie sniffs, pulling the comforter up to his chin.

“Okay,” Richie agrees easily, smiling slightly with his head tilted. His fondness for Eddie is apparent, and he looks so beautiful in the blue glow of the television still playing lowly in the background, like an angel or a prophet. But then he shakes his head, seemingly to clear his head of any distracting affection, and when he looks back at Eddie, his expression is serious. The pain written plainly on his face makes him look completely and utterly human.

“I just… I guess I need to know where you’re at first before I say anything,” Richie says, and it sounds so hard for him to get out, like pulling teeth, that Eddie feels a little bit bad for forcing him to.

“I mean... We’re more than 3,000 miles apart, Rich. Even if we wanted to try something, it wouldn’t be sustainable. I’d feel guilty for holding you back and the worrying about you would get so intense. Worse than it already was at school—and I didn’t even really _know_  you then. I’d just smother you, which is the last thing you want.” Eddie sighs, looking down at the blanket to pick at it, unable to look Richie in the eye after such an honest confession.

“I  _need_ someone to care about me the way you do, especially with how I’ve been fucking up lately,” Richie chuckles mirthlessly, which makes Eddie frown. “And, sure. Long distance is almost impossible with the disgusting monopoly of AT &T. But… who says we have to be?”

Eddie lifts his head, confusedly staring at Richie’s open expression. “What do you mean? We both have college.”

“Look around, Eds.” He splays his arms, gesturing to the room at large. “No, really, look around.” And that’s when Eddie realizes that there are boxes covering every inch of the floor. He hadn’t even noticed them before when he took his initial sweep of the room, just stepped around them like they were pieces of furniture.

“Wh…”

“I dropped out,” Richie explains with a casual shrug of his shoulders that by no means fits the severity of the statement. “Or, got kicked out is probably the more appropriate terminology.”

Eddie stares at the boxes for a while, mouth gaping from shock, before asking, “Why?”

“I mean, you know some of why. I was barely going to class by the end of the semester, just holed up in my room snorting line after line. I couldn’t function unless I was high as a kite. I managed to take two finals before… uh…”

“What happened, Richie?” Eddie implores gently, scooting forward so their bare knees knock together under the blanket. Richie gives their covered legs a half-smile, but it drops as quickly as it came.

“I overdosed.” A long, deafening silence fills the room. Eddie’s ears are ringing, and he can’t hear the television anymore. He can’t even hear himself think.

“No.” Eddie’s voice sounds far away even to himself as he shakes his head slowly. “No, you didn’t.”

“I really did. Jason found me with my arm tied off and a nee—”

“Richie, this is a really, really bad joke,” Eddie says, voice thick with tears that are already flooding his eyes. “Don’t joke about shit like that. Tell me the fucking truth.”

“I am telling you the truth, Eds,” Richie whispers, sounding just as broken as Eddie does, if not more so. “I wish I wasn’t, but I am.” 

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Richie, you could’ve…” _Died._ The unsaid word hangs heavy in the air, the punctuation to a statement neither of them ever thought they’d make. Eddie knows this isn’t the first time he’s worried for Richie’s life, and he’s more glad than he ought to be that the other situations in which he did so are murky in his memories.

“I know. I want to be able to say I didn’t mean to do it, but… I can’t,” Richie sighs, hanging his head shamefully, “I knew full well I was shooting far too much at once. I was half-hoping I wouldn’t wake up. When Jason found me, he called an ambulance, and they rushed me to the hospital where I had to spend a week detoxing before flying home on Christmas Eve. Spent most of Christmas on a plane and all my shit packed along with me. They told me I wasn’t welcome back due to the nature of what happened  _with my hospitalization,_ which I felt was a little harsh, but.” He snorts mirthlessly. “Can’t say I’m not relieved. I hated it there.”

“LA?” Eddie asks breathlessly, reeling from all the information.

“Nah. I love LA. I meant school in general.”

“How did your parents take it?”

“They’re just glad I’m alive,” Richie frowns, a self-deprecating set to his mouth, like he hates himself even more than he ever did before for making anyone worry. Eddie wishes he could wipe it away, so he tries his best to, curling his fingers around Richie’s wrist just to feel his pulse thunder beneath his fingertips. Safe.  _Alive._  Wonderfully, beautifully, terribly _alive._

“I am, too,” Eddie says, and he means it wholeheartedly.

“Yeah?” Richie asks, the corner of his mouth rising slightly as he looks up at Eddie through his eyelashes.

“Of course,” Eddie promises, a hushed quality to his voice. He reaches out with his other hand to reverently press his palm against Richie’s cheek. “I want you around forever.”

“Forever’s a long time,” Richie says, voice dark.

Eddie nods, “Sure is. Good thing, too. The world needs you in it. My world… needs you in it.”

 _“Eddie,”_ Richie moans brokenly, not from pleasure, but from a far more desperate place than sex could ever bring him to. Richie covers the hand on with cheek with his own, clutches it tightly like a lifeline. “Come back to California with me.” Half-demand, half-request. 

“You know I can’t do that,” Eddie sighs. He suddenly remembers his acceptance letter to UCLA ripped up and thrown away with a flash, like it was something intentionally forgotten and repressed unlike everything else. His cheeks flush at the memory of his own cowardice, and he quickly plugs the large hole this memory has broken in the dam. If this is who he was, he doesn’t think he wants to remember more. For a moment, he considers telling Richie about it, about how they could’ve had what they both want. He could’ve watched out for Richie and made sure he didn’t go off the deep end. He could’ve gone to a good school and been out of the closet in a liberal town. He could've been Richie's forever-boyfriend. He could’ve been _happy._

But he didn’t do that, and now they’re alone. Richie doesn’t even go to UCLA anymore. He sees no point in digging at old wounds.

“Why _not?”_ Richie snaps, eyes burning as he crawls so close to Eddie that he’s practically in his lap. He slides his arms around Eddie’s shoulders when Eddie drops his hands into his lap and away from Richie's skin. Richie cups the back of Eddie’s neck, forcing him to look up at him. “Why not, Eddie.” It doesn’t come out like a question this time, but more like a statement that’s too tired to be phrased any differently.

“Because if you let me go, you can have everything you’ve ever wanted,” Eddie says, shrugging.

“And what if everything I want is right fucking here?” Richie slides into Eddie’s lap fully, as if to punctuate his point. He threads his fingers through Eddie’s hair and tugs slightly, insistently. The comforter is bunched up between their naked pelvises, but Eddie can still feel the hard lines of Richie’s chest against his own and his thighs pressed tightly around his hips. Everything about Richie is always so fucking captivating. Enchanting. Eddie thinks there might be a bit of pure magic in the endless ocean of Richie’s irises. He knows that forgetting what he was arguing about in the first place was Richie’s exact intention, but it’s still a little infuriating that he managed to succeed.

“We both know that isn’t true,” Eddie says, blinking his eyes open where they’d fallen shut with reverence. He has to shake his head to try to clear his mind and stay on script. He aches to fit his thumbs into Richie’s visible hip bones. He doesn’t, because he can’t. Not really at least. Richie isn’t Eddie’s to have anymore; maybe he never was in the first place. “You have stars in your eyes when you talk about LA. Your love for that place could be seen from space. Even if you never go back to school, you love it out there.”

“You could, too.” He brushes his nose against Eddie’s, and he wants nothing more than to agree with whatever Richie wants from him, curl up against him and sleep so that neither of them are ever unsafe again. But the world doesn’t work that way, and they both know it.

“I have responsibilities here, Rich,” Eddie frowns, “I can’t just drop out.”

“What, like I did?” Richie snarks, lips curling angrily. This time, Eddie gives into his urge and cups his hands around Richie’s waist, shaking his head violently. 

“No, no, baby, that’s not what I mean at all. You didn’t drop out. What happened at UCLA was beyond your control.”

“Oh, that’s _horse_ shit and you _know_ it.” The anger in Richie’s tone makes Eddie a little nervous to be sitting so closely to him. It isn't that he's afraid of Richie hitting him—even with his spotty memory, he still trusts Richie endlessly to take care of him and not give into a fit of rage—but he is afraid to be caught in the crossfire between Richie and everything he hates about himself. But Richie doesn’t pull away, so Eddie doesn’t either. Even if Richie doesn’t trust himself, Eddie trusts him enough for the both of them. “I had complete control over the situation. I _chose_ to overdose the night before my Bio final because I’m weak. When given the choice, I’d rather kill myself than face anything even remotely difficult. I’m a fucking coward, Eddie, and you know it.”

“No, Richie, I _don’t_ know it, because what you’re doing right now seems pretty fucking heroic to me,” Eddie spits. “You’re getting clean, and that’s the bravest thing you could possibly do.” His grip on Richie’s hips tightens like he has the power to keep him from going anywhere. 

“But I’m still miserable!” Richie shouts, and Eddie cups his cheek tenderly to try to quiet him. The last thing they need right now is someone walking in. It works, and Richie continues quieter than before, “Clean, drugged, it doesn’t matter. It’s like everywhere I go, I’m just fucking _destined_ to be miserable.”

“Rich…” Eddie frowns, his thumbs sweeping against Richie’s cheekbone and hipbone simultaneously, hoping that brings him some sort of peace. “Would you please try to be happy, baby? Even if you can’t be happy for yourself, would you try to be for me?”

“But what’s the fucking point of that if you aren’t even around to know if I am or not? We’re just going to forget about each other again. About Derry, about our relationship, all of it. I don’t know how or why, but we will. I know we will.”

Eddie puts all the sweetness he can into his next words, hoping maybe his soft eyes and gentle tone and tender fingers dancing along Richie's skin will take the razor-sharpness out of the sentiment. “Maybe, honey, that’s for the best.” 

Despite how hard Eddie tried, Richie still rears back, disgusted as he pitches himself out of Eddie’s lap, ripping himself away like Eddie is burning him. “How the fuck could you say that? Jesus, I know you don’t love me like I love you, but you don’t have to be so fucking _cruel_ about it.”

“No,” Eddie moans, running on autopilot now. Fuck, he’d hoped so desperately that Richie wouldn’t remember the thing he’d been so horrified to remember himself: all the love he could never manage to verbalize. He grapples at Richie’s skin to try to pull him closer once again, but Richie stubbornly stays glued to the wall, so Eddie backs off, curling in on himself. He’s nearly completely hidden underneath the comforter, arms wrapped around his knees that’s he’s pulled into his chest. “Please, Richie… You know I… I…”

“You _what,_ Eddie?” Richie demands, and Eddie knows he’ll never be able to give Richie everything he needs, no matter how much he remembers.

“I adore you,” he whispers harshly, breaking eye contact. This is somehow easier to say than the word _love,_ but it’s no less true. It’s possibly even more so. Eddie nods to the comforter and then uncurls out of his defensive position, back straight as the blanket falls back to his lap. He looks back up and gives Richie a watery smile. “I adore you.”

A smile breaks over Richie’s face like a new dawn, cracking his face and splitting it in two. His whole body seems to relax into the bed, going boneless with relief. Eddie doesn’t want to think about how long Richie has been waiting to hear these words, or what he would’ve done if Eddie hadn’t said them. Despite it not being exactly what Richie needed to hear, it still seems like enough.

“You do?” All hope.

And Eddie doesn’t remember as much as he’d like—about their town, about their old friends, about Richie, about what they are to each other, or even about himself—but he does know that he absolutely fucking _adores_ every part of Richie that he can see. Every random fact about him that comes out of hiding in the dark, every blemish and scar and freckle that dots his skin, every misplaced curl, every terrible joke, every kiss and tear and look and _word,_ jesus christ, he adores him so completely that he barely knows how to contain it.

So he doesn’t. For a few brief moments in time, he doesn’t. He slowly crawls back over to Richie and tentatively goes to sit in his lap, unsure if Richie wants him in his space anymore. But when Richie curls his arms around Eddie’s waist and tugs him even closer, Eddie knows that even if Richie’s right and they do forget each other again, he will still always, always adore him. 

“Of course I do.” He smiles and lightly tugs on one of Richie’s curls before smoothing it back behind his ear. “I’m so happy to be with you, Richie. You are the only light I can remember from this ugly town. You and all our old friends. You make me so fucking happy.”

Richie’s eyes screw shut like he’s trying to stave off tears. Eddie traces the lines around his eyes this action causes lightly with the pads of his fingers. “But happiness would be meaningless if it were endless,” Eddie continues, “you know that, angel. We wouldn’t even know we were happy at all if we always felt it. The only thing that gives life meaning is knowing that all feelings and situations and people change eventually. They have to. Nothing is permanent, and we’re better off that way. The impermanence of our relationship gives it meaning. If we always felt the way we do with each other, we’d just want more. We’d get tired of each other. The pursuit of happiness is too strong to ignore.” 

“Am I allowed not to care?” Richie asks, sniffing lightly and giving Eddie a half-smile. “Am I allowed to still wish we could be together for real and forever?”

“Of course you are, baby. So long as you know that I’m doing the same.” He tips his forehead against Richie’s and tries to measure his breathing so he doesn’t need the inhaler he’d forgotten to grab before leaving the house. He ignores the memory of yelling at his mother, of lies, itching somewhere in the back of his head. “If I didn’t have responsibilities to my college and to my mom, you know I’d follow you to the ends of the earth. Anywhere you want to go, I want to be there, too. I’m just so scared to leave her. She’s got such a hold on me, and I don’t know how to shake it.”

“You deserve better,” Richie swears, voice wavering with intensity. “You deserve to be happy.” 

Eddie blinks in shock as he tries to take in those words. Does he really? He can’t force himself to agree because the guilt that fills him feels inescapable. He thinks that Richie’s veins are filled with ichor, a golden god, all light, while Eddie is only made up of blood and shame. Maybe in another universe, he could’ve been enough for Richie. In a world where he wasn’t raised by Sonia Kaspbrak, in Derry, Maine, in the hateful 80s, maybe. In a world where he wasn’t so afraid to fall in love, maybe. In a world where he could fly to California with Richie and hold his hand proudly when their ears pop as they lift off of the tarmac, maybe.

But it is not another world; it is this world. And in this world, Eddie allows himself to be run by fear and fear alone. It’s tragic that the dust collected in Richie’s room will remember his skin longer than Eddie will. It’s cruel that the dips in his mattress will remember their lovemaking longer than they will remember their love. It doesn’t seem fair.

But for now, they haven’t forgotten yet, so Eddie says, “I hope this is how I’ll always remember you,” despite the fact that he knows it won’t be, because Richie deserves to know an ounce of Eddie’s truth after everything he’s put him through. He won’t remember Richie at all, and that’s okay. It’s futile, love is, in this universe and any other, because nothing can survive the cruelty of humanity. It takes love in its teeth and gnaws at its tenderest parts until people believe they’re better off without it. And then, eventually, they die, alone or not, with love or without. It seems like a mercy-killing to destroy whatever’s left of their love now before the world destroys it for them. He’s glad the memories will fade instead of become serrated edges only serving as something to be cut on when they stumble upon them accidentally.

Maybe they were stupid to even try, or maybe they were bravest people alive. Either way, he’s glad he could love Richie Tozier while he had the chance to.

And after everyone has gone to sleep, he privately says goodbye to Maggie, Wentworth and Lucy, this safehouse that became a makeshift home, and Richie Tozier himself. He gets up just as the first sunlight of the new year is beginning to peek through the barren trees and dresses himself in his own clothes. He doesn’t take one of Richie’s shirts, though the urge to is nearly overwhelming. He chances pressing a long kiss Richie’s cheek knowing he might wake up because he’s afraid that the moment he stops touching Richie’s skin, everything will begin slipping away again. But Richie doesn’t wake up, and Eddie does pull away eventually because he has to. With a resolute nod, he slips the polaroid out of his jacket pocket and into Richie’s limp hand that was holding Eddie’s as he slept only a few minutes ago. It feels like years, like Richie is already half-gone.

“Goodbye, Richie. You know I love you,” he whispers to the silence, the dust, the sunlight, the new year, and the true new dawn, but not to Richie, and walks out of the Tozier’s house for the last time.

In another world, he stayed for breakfast like Lucy said he would. In another world, Richie woke up smiling. In another world, maybe he could view what he’s doing right now as a selfless act.

But it’s not another world, it’s this world, and Eddie is tired of pretending it’s not. He’s lived so long with one foot out of reality because it’s easier that way, but he doesn’t want to do that anymore. He wants to finally, finally accept that this is his life, and his choices are his and his alone. So he decides to let go because he thinks there is a salvation in choosing his own pain. He’d rather choke the throat of the love they shared and let it die than watch it gradually bleed out for years upon years. If they have to lose it eventually, at least this way they can decide for themselves when that happens instead of feeling its pulse slow to a stop in their hands. Forgotten phone calls and letters lost in the mail all sound like such a waste for a love so drenched in divinity. 

He remembers _you deserve to be happy_ as he walks back to his mother’s house. He still isn’t entirely certain that’s true, but what he _does_ deserve is to have some semblance of agency in his life. His mother did her best to steal it all from him, but he got to have everything he ever wanted without his mother ever finding out about it. Even if no one ever truly knows for sure the truth of the nature of he and Richie's relationship, Eddie still will, at least for now, and that is more than enough for him to believe there’s still hope left for him to continue choosing his own path in life. For a while, he had more than he ever could’ve asked for, and he thinks there’s no shame in acknowledging the beauty in that, even if it was temporary. All things have to die eventually, and as he said to Richie hours, days, years ago, happiness would be meaningless if it were endless.

Eddie always feels like he’s lost in the wilderness, wandering down the paths that are laid out in front of him without any real knowledge of where they’ll lead him. But with Richie, he felt found for the first and only time in his life. What he and Richie had was magic, celestial, _home_ in a way that he hopes he can achieve again one day but knows rationally that he won’t. He hopes at least Richie will. Richie deserves to find love, and have love find him back. And even if he loses the memories, he prays to God he never loses the feeling.


	20. Epilogue, Part I: August, 2016

_This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin_  
_Tried to reach deep, but you couldn’t get in_  
_Now you’re outside me_  
_You see all the beauty  
__Repent all your sins_

 _It's nothing but time and a face that you lose_  
_I chose to feel it and you couldn't choose_  
_I'll write you a postcard_  
_I'll send you the news_ _  
__From a house down the road, from real love_

_Live through this, and you won't look back_

—Your Ex-Lover is Dead, Stars

 

Eddie doesn’t usually answer the phone. That’s the beauty of having a wife who is also his secretary.

Tonight, however, Myra is napping in her recliner in the living room after a long day (doing what, Eddie doesn’t know, but he doesn’t usually ask these types of things). Their relationship is mostly business, and that’s the way they both like it. Myra used to be a little heavy-handed in her control of Eddie, but once the business really started to take off, she loosened the reins bit by bit. It was foreign, the feeling of no one else controlling Eddie’s actions but himself, but after about five years of this, Eddie is happier than ever. He and Myra aren’t very physical, barely even consummated, especially losing whatever minimal spark was there when they found out through extensive testing that Eddie is sterile and the prospect of having children together was moot. But they enjoy each other’s company for the most part.

It’s just business, their lives together almost clinical. They wear each other’s rings, swore their devotion to each other in front of the eyes of God, a priest and no one else, but that’s where the affection for one another starts and ends. Despite this unspoken pact, they’re friends. It’s been about nine years of marriage, coming up on ten in November, and they enjoy each other’s company much more without the dishonesty of the previous stifling arrangement. They mostly stay out of each other’s way until night falls, where they discuss work and then go to sleep. Eddie doesn’t remember the last time he slept in a bed with someone without their backs turned to each other.

But it’s fine. He’s fine. It’s better than being alone.

Myra works from home, and Eddie continues to drive celebrities around most of the day, even though it isn’t necessary for management to drive their cars. The thing is, Eddie genuinely enjoys driving, even when there are folks in his car. There’s a divider, and Eddie can quietly listen to his podcasts in the front seat while his phone spits out directions and collects the cash for him through their app. There’s very little human-to-human contact these days with the advent of the smartphone, and while it can get oppressively lonely at times, Eddie actually rather enjoys the solitude he finds in his cars, enjoys the control he feels over himself and others while driving them—control he doesn't really have in any other aspects of his life.

Cars have always been easy for him, and while Myra still doesn’t allow him to service the vehicles himself, he sometimes steps under the hood just to make sure everything is in its rightful place, performs an oil change or two, changes his own tires instead of calling one of the guys back at the office. What Myra doesn’t know won’t kill her, and the feeling of grit and grease on his hands feels better than any time he’s ever touched his wife. He chalks it up to business—just business.

That’s all Eddie’s life is anymore; he doesn’t remember ever being a man who wasn’t just business, and that’s the way he likes it. He isn’t burdened by emotions and thoughts he finds extraneous anyway. Shame, guilt, anxiety, they’re all pushed the the wayside. He doesn’t need them, so he doesn’t feel them. It’s better that way, he knows so.

He’s been calculating the tips he received this month for over an hour, so deeply into it that he doesn’t even notice when the phone rings at 7:36 P.M. It goes to voicemail, and when Eddie surfaces a little while later to check the time on his phone and finds no voicemail notification from the unknown caller, he quickly goes right back to work. _40 from McGuire. 20 from Depp—cheap bastard never tips well. 65 from Fox—good, she’s sweet. 95 from… Hmm, that’s a large tip. Who’s Tozier? Hope he uses us again, damn._

Eddie is now leafing through the info they have on _Tozier, R_ to see if maybe they had driven him to Long Island or perhaps to up to Westchester to justify such a large tip. They hadn’t—barely halfway through Manhattan—but the shocking thing he discovers is that Eddie himself drove Tozier, R. He has no memory of him, searches for his face in his memory but comes up blank.

He looks to see if they’ve driven this man before and finds that they have—and always to a tip of nearly $100 or more. Once, a few years ago, even $125. This is exorbitant, even for their wealthiest of clients, and Eddie has to wonder what he’s been doing to garner such appreciation from a stranger. He doesn’t recognize the name, even from the tabloids he rarely even skims, but he thinks he might do some light Googling after he’s finished up tonight. If Tozier scratches his back, Eddie might as well scratch his and find out if his work is any good. Probably an actor if he’s got enough cash to drop on a limo service; actors are always grossly overpaid.

The phone rings again, but Eddie has now moved back to his list of tips.

“Marty?” Eddie calls out distractedly. “Myra, can you get this?” He listens in between rings and hears Myra snoring over the sound of Wheel of Fortune. He frowns and looks at the Caller I.D. A string of unknown numbers, and underneath it, _MAINE._ Odd, Eddie thinks, considering he hasn’t heard from anyone in Maine since his mother’s passing. Two of his three aunts have since passed as well, and the remaining Kaspbrak sister is somewhere out in New Mexico, smoking medical marijuana to aid with her breast cancer, spinning clay pots and writing self-help books on how to go ‘off the grid.’ He smiles fondly at the memory of her—maybe he’ll go and visit her soon. Hopefully he and Myra can get a few days off once Fall comes around and things settle down a bit.

But when Eddie picks up at 8:04 P.M., all of what he’s known about his life comes to a screeching halt.

“Kaspbrak residence.”

“Hello, Eddie.” There’s a slight smile in the man’s voice, but it tremors with obvious nerves. Probably someone looking for information on one of his clients. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but my name is Mike Hanlon.”

“Hmm. I’m sorry, sir, I don’t recall that name.” Eddie picks his pen back up and begins his calculations once more. _45 from Grammar. 65 from Jolie. Oh, shit! She’s on Myra’s autograph list. Hopefully next time, she did give us five stars. 105, shit, from… Oh, it’s this Tozier guy again. What the hell’s in the water this guy’s drinking?_

Through his racing thoughts far away from the conversation, Eddie hears the man ask, “How much do you remember about Derry, Eddie?”

And just like that, Eddie’s blood runs cold. Not many images come, but more of a sick, dark feeling settles, like the clouds have suddenly descended and covered up what was left of the sun. His hand begins shaking, vision blurring, and he drops the pen as he blindly looks over at the calendar hanging up over his desk.

“Oh. Not… Not much.” He lets out a slow breath. “Why? Who are you?”

“It’s Mike, Eddie,” the man repeats, and Eddie allows himself for really _hear_ his voice now. It’s deep, reassuring, a little scared and all too familiar. “I’m your friend.”

“M—… Mike…” Eddie breathes, and suddenly, a few images _do_ surface. Nothing concrete, just _bicycles in the summer sun, ice cream dripping down chins, flying through the air into the waiting water below, dancing in a nighttime summer storm and counting on the heat lightning to illuminate his friends’ smiling faces._ All these memories together are lovely, and he smiles, forgetting about the storm clouds that still refuse to part.

“Wow. Hi, Mike. Damn, it’s been years. How’s our little corner of the world holding up?”

Mike chuckles softly at the other end, but it’s a sad sound, a dark sound, “Not great, Eddie. It’s back.”

The thunder rumbles. “What do you—”

Lightning strikes. _“It,_ Eddie. The…”

“Oh. Oh _fuck.”_ And then, the clouds open up, and it pours. Eddie leans over his desk and vomits into the wastebasket.

“Eddie…” Mike sighs, a comfort from where the phone is still pressed tightly against Eddie’s ear. Eddie hadn’t known he’d been hyperventilating until he hears Mike’s desperate voice pick up again. “Breathe, okay, man? You’re okay. It’s not that bad yet. Just…”

“Fuck,” Eddie chokes. “How many so far?”

“Just one, but it… it was a doozy.”

“How old?” Eddie asks, breathless, and Mike sighs.

“It wasn’t his age as much as it was… Oh, Eddie.”

Eddie’s cheeks heat up at the cloying tone in his old friend’s voice, the pity laced there. He isn’t sure he ever wants to know what put it there, but it has him scrambling for his inhaler regardless. After taking a hit off of it, he says, “You’re asking me to come, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question.

“I am.” Eddie nods, lets his breath out through his lips slowly to try to calm his lungs. “Not just you, though.”

“Lucky Seven,” Eddie responds robotically, and he doesn’t know where it comes from. The deepest recesses of his subconscious pull out seven figures, all blank-faced and wound tightly together.

“That’s right, Eddie. Lucky Seven.”

Eddie nods resolutely. “I’ll pack my bags.”

“Okay. I… I’ll see you soon, right?”

“See you soon, Mike.” Eddie is pulling the phone away from his face when he hears Mike call his name once more.

“And, Eddie?” A long pause. And then, a dark warning filled with far too much knowledge for one man to ever bear alone: “Be careful.”

Eddie packs his bags before he tells Myra he’s leaving—he thinks it’ll be easier that way. Their room is so formal, all business just like they are, but there’s one small artifact that Eddie’s been remiss to lose. It holds all the boyish, childhood innocence he’s been so certain all these years had been lost to the weeds. On their dresser is a non-functioning pink lava lamp. Its gel caught in stasis from years of dysfunction; it even sits beside a working desk lamp. And even with Myra’s needling to get rid of the thing, Eddie dear, it hasn’t worked for years, Eddie hasn’t been able to.

In lieu of Mike’s phone call, he feels like he paradoxically knows exactly why that is, and has no fucking clue all at once.

It isn’t as hard as he thought it might’ve been five years ago to get Myra’s permission to go. Her gaze is calculating when he wakes her up to tell her he’s going on a business trip. He thinks maybe she’s insinuating there’s more to it than that with her shrewd glare; the pale, bloodless color of his skin and the way his hands refuse to stop shaking probably tip her off. Eventually though, she softens, and calls him a cab herself. She kisses him on the cheek on the way out the door and tells him to call when he can. Eddie nods, holds her close, not out of affection, but from the creature-comfort of something as known and emotionless as his relationship with Myra. He takes one last look at his house, his wife, his life, and knows that he won’t be returning unless he’s in a body bag. The idea of it isn’t as terrifying as he thinks it probably should be.

The flight is smooth and short, but Eddie barely notices his surroundings, only feeling half-alive even as they descend from the clouds above into Bangor International Airport. He could’ve driven, as Derry isn’t too far into Maine, maybe only a five hour drive at most, and all of it is major roads that Eddie could ride in his sleep, and has. The Thruway to the Mass Pike and up Route 1 is a route he sees in his sleep often, monotonous dreams of driving and driving with no real destination in mind until he ends up in Maine, but he always wakes up before he can stop anywhere.

It takes looking down at his palm that he's been unconsciously itching for most of the ride to notice the reddened scar there, like a fresh wound. Eddie shudders and decides sitting on his hands would probably be easier.

He called a rental in, and it’s waiting for him in Bangor, but he’s a little more than worried he’s going to crash the thing into a tree just to avoid whatever darkness is waiting for him at the end of the ride. Perhaps that’s why all of his dreams riding to Maine cut themselves short: self-preservation.

He’s completely numb to his situation by the time the taxi drops him off at the rental place. The man behind the counter asks him where he’s headed, and Eddie tells him Derry.

“What’s in Derry? I’ve got family in that area, but there’s not a lot up there.”

“No,” Eddie answers, staring at him blankly, “there isn’t.”

His ride is quiet, no radio or music at all, and Eddie is grateful for the silence as much as he loathes it; his thoughts are so loud, he feels like he’s screaming with his mouth shut. When he pulls up to the Derry Townhouse after an hour of driving, he barely remembers the drive at all. He checks in and declines the concierge’s suggestion of joining them all for a game of Bridge in the lounge. _God, do I really look that old?_ Eddie asks himself as he drops his bags in his room, and goes to the adjoining bathroom to wash his hands. There’s no telling what germs were on the plane or the slightly dust-covered cab.

He looks up into the mirror and immediately regrets it. He looks tired, almost sick. He suddenly understands why the man had asked him to play Bridge; he looks as if he’s aged 10 years since the last time he looked at himself. His hair is still thick, a dirty grey-blonde, wavy mop of hair on his head, but his wire-rimmed glasses, crows feet, wrinkles, the bags under his eyes and the bruises that accentuate them leave less to be desired.

But then again, Eddie isn’t looking to impress anyone. He never has. He doesn’t even know if he’s ever known anyone worth even attempting it. He drives countless big-name celebrities day in and day out, but in all this time, he's still found nobody worth impressing. It wouldn't matter anyway; he isn't important enough to anyone to try. So he takes off his glasses, splashes some cold water in his face, spends about an hour milling around, unpacking and trying in vain to nap away his migraine, before he eventually leaves the Townhouse for his final destination.

When he finally pulls into the parking lot of the Chinese restaurant at nearly one in the morning, he’s shocked to find it still open, albeit mostly dead. He doesn’t remember anything in Derry being open 24 hours a day, let alone a Chinese fucking restaurant.

Nothing and everything is as he remembers it being. The town is petrified, perpetually frozen in the 90s, and yet, in a lot of ways, it isn’t. There was no Townhouse or Chinese place when he lived here, and the Market Street Drug Store is now a Rite Aid, sure. But the Aladdin is still standing (playing movies that came out six months ago), the streets all have the same names, and the _WELCOME TO DERRY!_ sign that he can’t believe he’d ever forgotten stands tall and faded at the edge of town.

He grabs the handle and stares at it for a while, taking a few deep, fortifying breaths. “Okay, Kaspbrak. Let’s do this.”

He pushes the door open, and his immediate reaction is that his surroundings are underwhelming; he lives in New York, so pretty much everything that isn’t his local Deli in Brooklyn that makes the most glorious double decker grilled cheeses on earth is underwhelming. He tells the woman at the front he’s with the Hanlon party, the word feeling foreign and unfamiliar in his mouth.

And then he sees them.

He’s seemingly late, so four of them are already there. The concierge leads him to a private room cut off from the rest of the restaurant by a beaded curtain, and there’s no way to hide, no way to just observe them from afar for a while until he gets his bearings. He’s thrown straight into the deep end of the murky water of his memories as he hears their voices for the first time in so, so long. Mike’s, a deep, dark sound with the edge of joyful, exhausted laughter. Beverly’s is a low, teasing thing, like she’s always only a moment away from poking fun at whoever she’s speaking to. Ben’s is quiet, soft, with an overwhelming kindness dripping from every word. And of course, Bill’s, high and clear like a bell, even after all this time.

Eddie can’t believe how it’s possible to have missed a group of people so much without even remembering they existed at all.

“Hi, guys,” Eddie says, but it comes out all cracked, split straight down the middle. He clears his throat as everyone whips around to look at him. “Hey.”

 _“Eddie,”_ Beverly breathes, tripping out of her chair to launch herself at him. The moment her arms wrap tight like a vice around his neck and he smells an expensive, mostly unfamiliar perfume with the same base she always used—something like mint and lavender, a woodsy thing that’s unobtrusive, like she’s trying to go through life unnoticed while still remaining who she is—he is struck with his first real memory since returning home.

_Skipping stones at the quarry with Ben and somebody else, another boy maybe, undoubtedly one of the Losers. Ben teaches them how, and Beverly smokes them all on her first throw. The other boy complains about being shown up by a girl, and she laughs. “I was always going to show you all up,” she says, “being a girl has nothing to do with it.” “Okay, don’t be modest, it has a little bit to do with it,” the boy grins. “Girls are better than us meager men and you know it. Lying innit very nice, love.” Beverly grins back, quips, “Hmm, I don’t see any men here, Ditch, do you?” and—_

Eddie hugs her back. Tentatively at first, and then fiercely, like he’s afraid what will happen if he lets go. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until three pairs of arms wrap around him, but the moment he does, he begins sobbing in earnest. How long has it been since he enjoyed physical contact? He avoids it with Myra as much as possible, and the guys at the company aren’t all that touchy-feely. He’s been touch-starved for so long, he hadn’t even noticed the hunger anymore, like a dull ache thrumming with an accepted discomfort just underneath his skin.

He presses his face into the crook of Beverly’s neck and allows himself to _feel_ for the first time in years.

“It’s okay, Eddie,” she whispers, petting his hair gently, “we got you. You’re all right.”

“I feel like such a wimp,” he laughs, the sound garbled through his tears against Beverly’s neck. “I don’t remember the last time I cried.”

“You’re not a wh-wi-wimp for crying, Eddie,” Bill says, voice soft from somewhere close by.

“Yeah, I-I wish I cried more often,” Beverly adds, a twinge of darkness in his voice that Eddie doesn’t remember being there previously. He pulls back to look at them all, but gets stuck on the bruises littering Beverly’s beautiful face, elvin features darkened and exaggerated by the recent, deep cuts there.

“Bev,” he sighs, placing a hand on her shoulder, afraid if he touches her anywhere else, she’ll consider it a threat, “what happened?”

“It’s, uh… It’s nothing,” she waves, pulling out of everyone’s grasps to go sit down. Eddie looks at everyone for guidance and is met with shrugs and a look that says, _we were too afraid to ask,_ from Ben. _Seemed too personal._

 _Too personal my ass,_ Eddie’s says back. _We’re her friends._ And while doesn’t know if that’s strictly true anymore, there’s an affection he feels for Beverly, a protection of her deep within him, that’s too strong to ignore the battering she’s taken.

“It certainly doesn’t look like nothing,” he says, taking the seat Bill had once occupied beside her. Ben sits to her right, Mike at the head of the table, and Bill sits across from them, not looking as put-out as Eddie thought he would that he stole his seat beside her. Maybe 27 years apart _has_ done them all a bit of good.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she sniffs, wiping at her eye as gently as she can, but she still winces when she makes contact with a tender bruise underneath. They look so horrifyingly recent, and Eddie thinks if he can trust anything about his scant memories, it’s that none of these men gave those bruises to her. They’re not meek, but they’re docile unless provoked. No, these cuts and bruises came from someone else’s hand, and Eddie is terrified to imagine who. “Fell down the stairs at work. You know I’m a fashion designer? I run my own line. We’ve got offices all over the world now. I had just gotten back from Milan when Mike called.”

She’s just trying to distract them all, so Eddie lets her for the time being. He knows the truth will reveal itself eventually. He smiles, “That’s so wonderful, Beverly. You always wanted to make clothes for the disadvantaged. I’m glad that got to come to fruition.”

“Oh. Well…” She looks away, ashamed, and Eddie regrets saying anything at all. “It was like that for a while. But... things change, you know. It’s just business.” Eddie shudders at those words, and knows whatever she’s about to say will be very important, but it won’t be good. “My first investor, he’s said to… I mean, he’s my, uh—” Beverly cuts herself off seemingly without meaning to, her throat closing up to prevent her from speaking, almost like there’s an invisible hand choking her stiff.

“Beverly?” Eddie prompts gently. He rests his arm behind her chair and slowly and as non-threateningly as he can, curls his hand around her upper arm. She looks at him, eyes cloudy and distant, like she isn’t really here at all, but it’s someone else’s hand on her arm, someone else’s arm under that hand. People who are much more dangerous to each other than they are in reality. “You’re safe here with us. You know that, right?”

“But I’m not,” she laughs, a hollow sound. “None of us are safe here.”

“But we’re safe together,” he says. “And we love you. And we love each other.” He smiles at the rest of them, all in various states of paralyzing fear at the sight of Beverly so thoroughly destroyed. Eddie doesn’t know why he hasn’t joined them down the hole of anxiety; that’s usually his modus operandus, but there’s just something about this situation that Eddie feels qualified to handle. “And that’s enough for now. And that’s enough to kill It. I know it is.”

“You think?” Beverly smiles, finally making eye contact with him from through the length of her bangs. Eddie nods, brushing the hair out of her face gently with two fingers and tucking it behind her ear.

“Sure, Bevs. Sure I do.”

A sweet moment passes where they all smile before Mike breaks it. “Okay, Tozier, you don’t have to keep standing behind the curtain like a stalker. We can see you. There’s plenty of room at the table for you.”

Eddie whips his head around to find someone stumbling through the beaded curtain with a huge, plastic grin, “Ain’t a guy allowed to make a dramatic entrance? Jeez, shit really has changed around here.”

Just the sight of him has Eddie reaching for his inhaler and discreetly taking a hit off of it. Richie Tozier, in the flesh, eyes flashing wildly behind his battered glasses, and he looks like sin in a dark Prada suit, barely ruffled from hours of flying. He looks everybody up and down, and the plasticity of his smile warms at the sight of Beverly.

“Hey, Levvie. Beautiful as always.” She jumps up at the greeting to give him a hug in a similar fashion that she did for Eddie. Richie chuckles, kissing her temple lightly before pulling away. “And look at this!” He gestures to Bill. “I could shine my shoes on that bald spot!”

“Beep beep, R-Ri-Rich,” he laughs, the words sounding so natural off his tongue, but they’re drowned out by Richie wolf-whistling when he sees how Ben has matured.

“Damn, Handsome Hanscom really lives up to his name!”

Ben blushes, “Aw…”

“Cute,” Richie grins, which makes Eddie bristle, but he wouldn’t be able to explain why if held at gunpoint. “And Mikey, our fearless lookout. Time has really fucked you over, huh, gorgeous?”

“Knowledge can do that to a man,” Mike chuckles, but it isn’t a funny joke, and nobody laughs.

But then Richie’s eyes finally land on Eddie, and the moment they make eye contact, time stops. He swears to God it does. Fuck, how could Eddie ever have forgotten the color of Richie’s eyes? Cobalt blue under the warm yellow lights of the restaurant, but he instinctively knows somehow that they change hue in natural light.

Eddie doesn’t know how long they’re suspended in the moment, just drinking each other in. His eyes rove over Richie’s frame, from the expensive suit jacket he’s wearing to his hands—littered with chunky rings, but Eddie notes with a twist in his gut that there isn’t one on his left fourth finger. Something else comes back at the sight of Richie’s hands, another memory, an impression more than anything else, but it’s enough to send Eddie reeling.

_Painting Richie’s nails in the pale, winter light of his bedroom. Alternating between black and neon green. It honestly looks terrible, even with Eddie’s meticulously steady hand, but it’s what Richie asked for, and Eddie has always been hard-pressed not to give him everything he—_

Damn, Eddie had not been expecting _this_ when he stepped off the tarmac.

Richie looks a little like he’s about to pass out when he finally speaks up again, “I gotta—go jerk it in the bathroom. Don’t worry, Spaghetti, I’ll be clean—do it right into a wad of toilet paper. Haystack’s beautiful face has me all worked up.” The joke comes out hasty, nervous, and it doesn’t land quite right, but everyone groans good-naturedly as Richie bolts out of the room.

Once the beaded curtain goes still once more, Bill suggests they dig into their noodles, stuttering his way through telling them they’re probably cold by now. Eddie is grateful that no one asks him why their greeting was so stilted and awkward. It’s the appetizer, plain lo mein, and Eddie feels like he’s on autopilot as he takes a helping and pokes mindlessly at the heap with his chopsticks while staring at the curtain, waiting for something he isn’t sure will ever come.

His picking turns nervous as he wonders where the hell Stanley is. If Bill had been able to get to Maine from England on time, surely Stan could from Atlanta. Eddie doesn't really remember much about him, but he’s part of the Lucky Seven, so Eddie knows he’s vital to their dynamic. It shows; conversation lags in lieu of Richie’s odd escape, and Eddie finds himself wanting to be acerbic for no reason, acid dripping off his tongue nonsensically at every turn. It’s a stark contrast to the softness he displayed only a few minutes ago with Beverly, and he doesn’t know where it’s coming from. Eddie isn’t mean. He never is. He doesn’t know why he wants to act that way now, compensating for something that he didn’t even know he lacked.

“Motherfucker,” Eddie curses, dropping his chopsticks and scrambling up, chair scraping loudly on the floor. “I forgot to wash my hands. I can’t believe I forgot. I haven’t forgotten in—”

“It’s okay, Eddie,” Beverly smiles, placing a comforting hand at the middle of his back as she looks up at him. “We’ll all still be here.”

Eddie nods, drops the cloth napkin he’d been wringing, and rushes into the bathroom, blinders on until he feels all ounce of grime wiped away. He washes his hands methodically, blocking everything out but the sight of his own hands as he digs into every crevice like it’s somehow going to wash the dirt from his mind. Fuck, how had he forgotten how gorgeous Richie is? Had he always been? It’s beyond hot, beyond sexy or cute or handsome. Richie is an absolutely, staggeringly, blindingly, life-altering type of _beautiful,_ and it’s destroying any semblance of knowledge he had about himself.

He always thought himself to be some form of asexual when he was in New York, not having any interest in anyone physically or romantically. Sure, some men were pretty, _really_ pretty, and sometimes they would hit on him, but it was New York City. Everyone looks pretty under the bright lights, including himself; the city lies more often than not. But most importantly, Eddie has a wife, so the pretty men didn’t register to him at all. Maybe he and his wife rarely touched, but that was as much Myra’s choice as it was his own.

At least, he thought it was, until one long look at Richie Tozier in the town he grew up in forced him to reconsider everything he knows to be true.

Eddie shakes his head forcibly. Fuck that. Eddie Kaspbrak doesn’t get moony over anyone—not even his ethereally beautiful childhood friend.

But then he turns to grab a few paper towels, and finds Richie standing there, staring at him silently whilst white-knuckling the sink in front of him with both hands. Eddie jolts and curses, handing hovering over his chest.

“Don’t be so fucking creepy, Richie, Jesus.” He walks forward to grab some paper towels and strips his hands with them angrily, looking at anything but Richie.

“Sorry, I just—” He shakes his head, blowing out an unsteady breath and staring down at the sink for a long moment before pushing up to lean against the wall with an air of put-upon nonchalance. “You really grew up good, Eds.”

“Shut up,” Eddie hisses without any real heat, cheeks flaming as he reaches around Richie to throw away the damp paper towels. “And don’t call me—”

Eddie is cut off by Richie’s hand gently grabbing his own. The grip is so loose, nothing like how he’d been gripping the sink moments ago. Eddie knows he could extricate himself from it at any moment. But then Eddie looks up at him, wide-eyed and fearful, and finds Richie smiling softly down at him. He suddenly doesn’t want Richie to release him so much anymore, and instead wants to study the color of his irises. They’ve changed again, a lighter, more luminescent blue under the white fluorescents in the bathroom. _Beautiful,_ he thinks again unbiddenly.

“I didn’t get to say a proper hello,” Richie says quietly, head tilting fondly. He twists their fingers together and lets them drop between their bodies. Eddie doesn’t work to untangle them, though there’s a voice inside that tells him he should want to.

“Well, hi, then,” Eddie says, ducking his head to avoid Richie seeing his blushing cheeks or the smile he’s lost the will to fight.

“Hey, Eds.” He steps forward. “I’m gonna—” Richie reaches out tentatively to touch his free hand to Eddie’s shoulder blades. “Can I just—”

“Please just hug me, Rich,” Eddie sighs, untangling their fingers to launch himself into Richie’s space gracelessly, causing them both to stumble as Eddie wraps his arms tightly around Richie’s neck.

Richie chuckles and nods, dipping his hand to the small Eddie’s back so he can rest his forehead on Eddie’s shoulder. “Okay,” he whispers, and he does; Richie hugs him. It’s so unlike the hug Eddie had just gotten from Beverly; it’s just as fierce, just as tight and foreign and intimate, but there’s a charge in the air that Eddie desperately tries to ignore, one that forces his instincts to press his lips against the base of Richie’s throat. Not a kiss, he tells himself, just resting his mouth there. Richie’s breath hitches, and Eddie can feel him swallow tightly against his own skin. Intimate.

Eddie didn’t know how good it could feel to simply _hold_ somebody before. He feels bereft from all the years he’s wasted under the guise of Business.

“I missed you so fucking much,” Richie chokes out, tightening his arms around Eddie’s middle until they’re pressed flush against each other. “Jesus, just that sounds trite and cheap compared to how big this feels.”

“I know. Me, too,” Eddie says, feeling the way each of their voices vibrate against Richie’s throat. He breathes in, trying to commit Richie’s scent to memory without replacing it with things he hasn’t remembered yet. Richie lets out a harsh breath at the same time Eddie does.

“I don’t even remember most of the things I’m supposed to. But what I do remember is the feelings. It was so overwhelming, I had to—” Richie cuts himself off, pulling away to lean against the sink and pulling Eddie with him by the hips. There’s a strange white powder all over the porcelain Richie had been gripping before, like somebody had spilled it, but Eddie doesn’t care to dissect it, too engrossed in Richie to even want to. “It was like, I looked at Beverly, and I found my long-lost twin. I looked at Bill and just felt _calm,_ you know? Safe. Like I finally had someone I could follow who wouldn’t lead me down a hole I couldn’t climb out of.” Eddie nods. He knows the exact feeling Richie’s describing.

“These however-many years have been rough, Eds. Like… Everybody loves me. And it’s great. It’s always sunny out there, and everyone gives me whatever I ask for; parties, sex, alcohol… drugs… but…” He sighs, hanging his head. “There was always something…”

“Missing?” Eddie supplies. Richie nods, grabbing his hand. Eddie notices distantly that he’s shaking.

“Yeah. Missing.” The rest of the conversation goes unspoken, but Eddie can hear what’s trying to be said anyway: _I think I found it._

“Come on,” Eddie urges, tugging Richie towards the door. “They’re gonna think I finally snapped and offed you in here.”

“Oh please,” Richie scoffs, “you love me too much.”

Eddie lets go of his hand, blushing once again as he leads them out without another word.

Things are going fine, catching each other up on their lives; Ben designs buildings, Beverly makes clothes, Bill writes horror novels in a little cottage in England, Richie acts, Mike works tirelessly at the Derry Library, and Eddie drives. All different lives, all intersecting in strange but explainable ways; Beverly supplied the costumes for an adaptation of one of Bill’s books he also wrote the screenplay for, Richie did a play in a theatre Ben designed, most of them have used Eddie’s car service before, though none of them remember ever seeing each other in these inexplicable passings.

Or, maybe they had, and they didn’t remember enough about each other to notice.

Their dynamic feels unchanged, even with the years spent apart and the empty seat they aren’t willing to discuss yet. But towards the end of dinner, everything goes to shit when the conversation of partners comes up. Bill talks with stars in his eyes about his beautiful wife, Audra. They all listen, rapt with attention and smiling fondly at him. Eddie had always hoped a nice girl would see the beauty in Bill Denbrough one day.

And then they all look at him.

“Oh,” Eddie says, floundering as he picks at his fingers underneath the table. “Yeah, I’ve got someone.”

 _“Someone,_ huh?” Beverly teases, elbowing him in the side. Eddie giggles, and rolls his eyes.

“I guess, yeah. A wife, I mean. I’ve got a wife.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He never does. He wears his wedding ring more to ward off any potential interest than any sense of pride in the marriage. But that feels far too pathetic to share, and there’s something about the way Richie refuses to look at him that makes him not want to say anything else at all, pathetic or not. So he doesn’t.

“Well, I’m shacked up, too,” Richie proclaims haughtily, like he’s got a point to prove, head shooting out of his lap to stare everybody down; a challenge. “Yeah, nice girl named Sandy. Sandy Dandy, from Disneyland-y.”

“Your girlfriend is from… Disneyland?” Mike asks, a teasing smile on his face.

“You fuckin’ bet,” Richie snaps, defensive for reasons none of them understand.

“Okay…” Ben says warily, turning to Beverly with a friendly smile. “And what about you, Bev?” Every ounce of good-nature in Beverly’s expression is sucked out in an instant at the inane question. Richie looks up as if he can sense the change in the atmosphere.

“I do. I would say _I guess_ as well, I suppose,” she says, laughing mirthlessly. “Your phone call, Mike, that… I, uh…”

“It’s okay, Beverly,” Ben says, going to wrap an arm around her, but she jerks away, bumping into Eddie’s shoulder. She jerks back again, as if she’s being tossed around like a rag doll. But nobody’s moving. Nobody dares to. Nobody in this room would ever push around Beverly Marsh like she’s been so afraid of for longer than they’ve even known her.

“It’s not!” she cries, half-hysterical. “He’s a — Tom, I love him. I need you all to know that. I mean, not like I love—but—”

Richie nods, “Okay, Beverly. We know that.” There’s a terse silence as the two of them look at each other, a language the rest of them don’t know how to speak passing between them. Eddie feels like he might’ve been once conversational in it, but has since lost the ability to translate. _Long-lost twins,_ Eddie remembers. Maybe he was adopted into the family the two of them made once upon a time, or perhaps married into it. Nevertheless, he isn’t their family any longer, and it leaves him feeling more shipwrecked than he has all day. “You’re allowed to love someone and hate them at the same time.”

“Are you?” Beverly asks. “Because it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I have to choose one way or the other. Him, and all that comes with, or-or—...” Beverly sighs, hanging her head, unable to finish.

“Because that’s what happens with abuse, darling,” Richie says, putting his hand out for her to take from across the table. She doesn’t, just winces at the brutal word choice instead, but her hand inches closer to his almost subconsciously anyway. Maybe the harshness of the word was what she needed. Eddie wouldn’t know; he can’t speak their language. Richie doesn’t look even remotely hurt by Beverly’s reaction, and continues to stay outstretched.

“How do you know that?” Beverly asks, halfway to tears.

“Sandy, my-my girlfriend. She was in an abusive relationship for years before we got together. I met her at the tail end of it. For a while, I was just a safe place to crash for her. We were barely even friends; I met her at one of my shows, and I took her home afterwards to help tend to her bruises. It just kept happening, and I tried to give her enough courage to leave. She did eventually, but it took a few times for it to stick. She kept going back. Said she loved him too much, that she knew he’d change. But guys like that, Bevs, they don’t change because they don’t think there’s anything wrong with what they’re doing. This guy, he your husband?” She nods. “Yeah, thought so. He probably parades you around like a prize he won. Showers you with lavish gifts. Connected your bank accounts for vague reasons; safety purposes maybe. All this sound right?”

She just stares. For a long, long time. Too long. Eddie is afraid that maybe she’s dissociated so completely that she doesn’t even remember where or who she is. Eddie cuts his eyes to Richie, trying to communicate with him to ease his way out of the conversation. Richie nods without looking away from Beverly, like he’d heard what Eddie had been trying to express without even seeing him. Maybe he hadn’t been so divorced from their family as he once thought.

“Hey, Levvie.” The clouds hovering over Beverly’s eyes clear a little bit, and she no longer looks like she’s staring at Richie without seeing him.

“Hey, Ditchie.” Richie gives her a smile, amiable and true, nothing false about it. Beverly gives him one back, no teasing edge to it like before. Only honesty, no masks or Voices; nothing but Beverly and Richie. Just the sight is enough to make Eddie want to cry from all they’ve missed out on. Maybe this conversation wouldn’t even be necessary if they’d stayed together. Beverly’s face would be unmarked, and there would be no strange white powder on the bathroom sink, and Eddie would be able to speak their language fluently. They’d be a family like they all should’ve always stayed.

“I love you.” She nods, slowly at first, and then more strongly.

“I know you do.” She finally slips her hand in his, and they hold on so tightly, their joined hands begin to shake from the force of it. “I love you, too. I…” She looks around at all of them, finds the shining eyes of the boys she’s lost, and smiles. “I love you all.”

Eddie rests his head in the crook of her shoulder and wraps his arm around her waist, smiling over at Richie until they catch eyes. _Thank you,_ he mouths. Richie winks, and Eddie’s stomach catches on something sharp at the sight, ripping him open just a little bit more and exposing vulnerabilities he long since believed didn’t exist at all.

And then a few things happen all at once: Bill says maybe they should head back to the Townhouse for the night, Mike grabs his fortune cookie, and Ben lets out a short, sharp scream. They all jump, and then suddenly, pandemonium.

Their fortune cookies, once laying docile on the table in a pile, begin to shake and crack open on their own, revealing horrors Eddie had forgotten could make him feel so paralyzed. Blood sprays in Beverly’s face. A cricket jumps on Eddie’s head and starts burrowing into his hair like it’s trying to dig its way into his skull.

He can’t breathe. He can’t move. Paralyzed.

His hand jerks to his pocket to grab his inhaler, but then he sees a spider crawl out of Richie’s and make its way towards him, and there’s something about the pure fear on his face that forces Eddie into action. He grabs one of the plates and smashes it down onto the spider, forgetting for a moment about the cricket on his own head. He holds a cup over the blood still gurgling out of Beverly’s, and grabs the cricket with his other hand, throwing it full force against the wall. It shatters like it’s made of glass.

Once Eddie has systematically slain all of the horrors on the table, he realizes that there’s seven cookies, but only six of them have been destroyed—the last one, whole and unbroken, is for Stanley who still hasn’t shown up. Eddie stares at the cookie, waiting for it to burst open, but it doesn’t. An inhuman quiet passes over the room.

And then uncanny laughter peels out of the cookie as it begins to glow with a sickly yellow, streaming out from all the cracks in it.

Eddie smashes it with his open palm, and lifts his hand, not to find crumbs, but a small slip of paper; a fortune. Eddie looks up to the ceiling briefly, blindly attempting to pray, and picks it up. He reads it out loud with a shaky voice, because he’s afraid if he doesn’t say them aloud, the words will own him like they did when he was 13.

 _Eddie —  
_ _What are you looking for?_

He looks up at everyone, staring horrified at the carnage around them. He rips the paper up into the smallest pieces he can manage and drops them. They disappear before they can hit the floor, almost as if they were never there at all.

And then, finally, silence.

He looks around to all of them, stone-faced in a way he never thought he’d have the guts to be. He grabs his jacket off the back of his chair, pulls out his wallet, and slaps a hundred dollar bill down on the table, right in a pool of the blood from Beverly’s cookie. “Let’s go.”

And they do. They all pile into Mike’s pick-up truck, Richie clutching onto his overnight bag for dear life because he hadn’t had time to check in, and they make their way back to the Townhouse together. Afraid to be alone even for a moment, they make their way from the truck to Mike’s room in a strange, shaking huddle.

There’s a brief silence once everyone is settled in the room before a few people begin talking at once.

Ben: “What the hell was that?”

Beverly: “I’m afraid to sleep alone tonight.”

Bill: “Mike, where’s Stanley?”

The last question cuts through like a knife, despite the quietness of Bill’s high, soft voice, and the other two swallow their words to look at an ashen, confused Mike.

“I… I don’t know, Bill.”

“Well, what did he ssss-say? On the ph-phone?”

“Nothing too committal. He sounded kind of… far away.”

“Far away?” Eddie asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah. Like he barely heard a thing I said after he… you know, remembered.”

A brief silence, and then, “Well, who could blame him? It’s not like I exactly wanted to hop on a plane and come kill myself for the sake of a dumpy town that treated me like I was subhuman in the first fucking place.”

“Richie,” Eddie hisses, like he has any right to.

“What? You know I’m right, huh, Spaghetti Man?” Richie rushes towards him so that Eddie has to duck out of reach of Richie’s wandering hands. They end up in a little, awkward chase around the room that has everybody laughing in a breathless, relieved sort of way when Richie finally catches him around the waist and hoists him up into the air.

Eddie’s squealing and shouting, “Put me down, you cretin!” But Richie is bowling over him, much to the delight of the rest of the room.

“Wow, Eds, you sure got heavy since the last time I saw you! Where’s all that weight going, huh? You don’t look any bigger! Still cute as ever, yessiree!”

“Richie, quit it!” Eddie giggles, slapping at Richie’s shoulders. No one heard the cell phone ring. No one heard Mike’s quiet voice; at least, not until it cuts through like sandpaper grating on their brief moment of joy.

 _“Guys,”_ Mike grits out. They all snap their attention towards him to find his eyes wide and wet. The silence that falls over the room at the sight of his expression is almost deafening. Richie lets Eddie down slowly, their arms still wrapped around one another, too shocked to let go. Mike is _never_ angry. Something is very, very wrong.

He turns his attention back to the phone, “Yes, ma’am, I understand. I really am so sorry. This was not my intention in the least. I had no idea he suffered from… No, I understand. Of course. Well, this is utterly heartbreaking news… Give him my best when he — No, no, you’re right. Of course. Whatever you think is best, Patricia. Thank you. All right… Be well. Yes, I will. Goodbye.”

The silence overwhelms them all when Mike hangs up, dropping his phone onto the bed. He stares unseeingly at the carpet for a long, arduous minute before saying, “Stan tried to kill himself.”

His voice sounds as disconnected from the world as all of them feel in that moment.

And then, Richie slips out of Eddie’s arms and collapses onto the floor.

“No,” he moans, shaking his head, “no, no, no.” Eddie drops down beside him at the same time as Beverly rushes over, Bill hot on her heels. “He told me when we were young. He told me he _hated_ himself, Bev.” Eddie thinks maybe he’s directing the words at Bev, because if he tells them to anyone else, they’ll judge him for keeping Stan’s confession to himself. It breaks Eddie’s heart. “He told me, and I… I told him we all feel that way. Like it was _normal.”_

“Richie…” Beverly whispers. She sounds like an open wound.

“You don’t _get it,_ Bev,” Richie insists, voice hard as stone, eyes snapping up to bore into her. She shrinks at the sight, and Bill curls an arm around her shoulders, both for comfort and to keep her from ducking out when Richie clearly needs her. “I _thought I was right._ I thought… I thought wanting to end your life was fucking _normal.”_

“Wait… Richie…” Eddie tries, but his voice gets stuck in his throat when he attempts to question him further, tongue-tied and terrified of whatever response he might get.

Bill sighs, world-weary, and completes his sentence for him, “You wanted to k-k-kill yourself?”

“Ding ding ding! _We have a winner!”_ Richie crows, high-pitched and manic. “Come get your prize, folks—one crazy as all fuck Rich Tozier, his Gucci loafers, and all the Lithium that’s rattling around in his suitcase! It’s a shitty fucking prize, but it’s all he’s got to give!”

Eddie presses his palm to the back of Richie’s neck in an attempt to soothe him, but he isn’t sure Richie even feels it, trembling with the kind of force that causes earthquakes and avalanches. Eddie curls his fingers around the bulge of his aspirator in his slacks, wishing for a moment that it brought the kind of relief to Richie that it brings to him.

“Ri-Richie,” Bill says, “when was this?”

“Which time? When did it stop?” A noise comes out of his mouth, something garbled and broken, a not-laugh. It makes Eddie’s blood run cold.

“When we were young?” Beverly asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Sure. Fuck. God, I’m so fucking _selfish._ Mike, what’s Stanley’s condition? Is he gonna be okay?” Everyone looks over to Mike—all except for Eddie who is still frowning at Richie, the words batting themselves around in his mind. _Not selfish,_ he wants to say, _not even close,_ but the moment has passed, and he isn’t sure Richie would even believe him if he did say it.

“He’s stable,” Mike responds, hollow, “alive, but barely. Don’t know much more. Patricia Blum, Stanley’s wife, she… she _blamed me_ for it. And I get it; she—”

“Fuck that,” Richie says sternly, cutting off whatever Mike was going to relay. “I don’t need to hear whatever shit she spouted. Suicide, attempts or otherwise, are no one’s fucking fault, not even the person with the knife in their hand. I get that she was traumatized by it, and I respect that, but you loved Stan, too, man. I mean, shit, you remembered him this entire fucking time. You kept tabs on us all. You kept the light on, not because anybody asked you to, but because you thought it was the right thing to do. You noble, beautiful piece of absolute shit.”

Richie pitches up off the carpet and easily escapes all their hands so he can join Ben where he has an arm hanging loosely around Mike’s shoulder. He throws himself onto Mike, wrapping himself around him with the kind of blind, clumsy gratitude that only Richie Tozier can achieve without making a fool of himself. The two of them topple slightly, and would’ve fallen back down to the ground had it not been for Ben’s stable arm.

“Richie, it’s fine,” Mike chuckles, but his voice is thick, like he’s been holding back tears for more than 20 years.

“It’s _not_ fine, Mike,” Eddie says, getting up to walk over to them as well. “None of us are _fine,_ least of all you. You stayed in this racist, angry, blind, bullshit town just to save a few kids from dying every 27 years. If anyone in this room is a hero—if anyone in this entire fucking _world_ is a hero—it’s you, Michael Hanlon.”

By the time Eddie has finished speaking, all five of them are holding onto Mike as he weeps. Eventually, the rest of them join him in tears, overwhelmed from all they just learned: Stanley nearly succeeded in killing himself, Richie has tried to god knows how many times before, Beverly’s husband has been abusing her, and Mike has been the flickering flame in the lighthouse of Derry for longer than any of them can conceptualize. While all of them went out and led blissfully ignorant, successful, lonely lives, Mike stood more alone than any of them in a hateful town for no reason but to uphold his moral code.

They have all been dealing with so much for so long. Eddie feels silly in comparison for thinking his loveless marriage and bleak existence could even come close to what his friends have gone through. Bill lost his little brother to the mouth of a devil, and Eddie is lamenting his sexuality crisis.

_Selfish. Selfish._

“Eddie, no,” Bill says. Eddie looks up, startled, afraid Bill could read his mind like he used to fear his mother could. But everyone is looking at him, expressions in various states of empathetic pain, and Eddie figures out he’d been speaking out loud for god knows how long. His cheeks burn when he realizes he might’ve let slip about his sexuality in the process, but none of them look particularly shocked by anything he said, so either he hadn’t, or they knew all along. Either option makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Bill winds an arm around his shoulder to pull him close, and he smells of sandalwood and lavender, just as he did when they were young. “You aren’t ssss-sel-selfish. We have all been dealing with wh-wha-what happened to us here. Your relationship with your mmmm-m-mom is nothing to scoff at.”

“And besides,” Richie adds quietly, quieter than Eddie ever remembers him being, “trauma isn’t a dick-measuring contest. We all got demons. We all hold the weight of our own shitty worlds on our backs.”

“Like Atlas,” Ben says, smiling a bit. When Eddie tips his head in confusion, Ben rushes to continue. “Atlas is a Greek god, a Titan, though a lesser-known one. He was tricked into holding the universe on his shoulders for the rest of time, with no way to put it down—Atlas literally means to endure, or to dare. We all carrying our pasts around with endurance like an albatross. Like Atlas.”

“New name,” Richie grins, “the Atlas Club.”

“It’s got a nice ring,” Eddie snorts, resting his head in the crook of Richie’s shoulder. Someone’s arm tightens around his waist. Eddie doesn’t think it much matters whose.

After that, they begin slowly disseminating into their rooms for the night promising to meet back up again in the morning to descend into the sewers. Ben and Beverly exit together, holding hands, but it doesn't look romantic at all; it just looks like safety. It warms Eddie's heart to see, and he kisses both their cheeks when he bids them goodnight. It’s just Richie, Eddie and Mike in the room when Eddie finally asks the question that’s been burning his mind to ash since the phone call:

“Mike,” he says, “who is Adrian Mellon?”

And with a heavy, ancient sigh, Mike tells him about the gay man who was killed at this year’s Fourth of July festival on the Kissing Bridge. A hate crime, he calls it. Eddie doesn’t have to ask what the Clown has to do with it, which is good because his mouth feels so dry he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to speak again. His body had been ripped up when they found it, Mike relays—too desecrated to have been done by man. His boyfriend, Don, skipping town instead of testifying, and the odd case of one of the men who killed Adrian’s testimony including something about a ravenous clown in the river was all the proof Mike needed.

Eddie can barely breathe, just nods, chokes out, “Excuse me,” and runs to the bathroom to wash his hands for the fourth time that evening.

None of them had been expecting it; something supernatural? Maybe. But not Eddie hearing Richie and Mike let out a blood-curdling scream from over the water still rushing from the faucet. He turns it off, and with his hands still sopping wet, he rushes to the door, but before ripping it open, he pauses. He hears a scuffle, a yelp, a groan, someone with a deep, gruff, angry voice with a manic lilt to it say, “Wow, look at this. The Four-Eyed Faggot and Jim Crow. Two for the price of one; must be my lucky day. Didja miss me? Cuz I sure missed you.”

Eddie recognizes that voice in some deep recess of his mind, and it sends shivers like lightning down his spine. He looks around the room, searching for anything he can brandish as a weapon. _Plunger? No, not heavy enough. Oh, the disposable razors, but… too loud, yeah, taking them apart would be too loud. What do I have with me? Pockets, pockets…_ He feels his inhaler, a steady and strong ally, in his pocket, and his keys beside them. A possible weapon, he thinks, but when he pulls them out rather quickly after hearing someone scream, he remembers:

Pepper spray. Of course. Myra didn’t trust “those thugs in Williamsburg” (considering the sweet population of Williamsburg, Eddie still has no idea what thugs she could possibly be referring to) and begged him to carry pepper spray with him. He obliged, because Eddie always obliged to Myra; he can’t believe her fear of getting hurt might spare them all their lives.

He puts his finger on the trigger of the spray and slowly turns the knob, opening the door to find Richie on Henry’s back like a monkey, him digging at Henry’s eyes, and Mike slumped over in the corner of the room, eyes half-closed and clutching a gushing wound on his shoulder. Henry has a knife and is trying to stab at Richie with it without stabbing himself in the process. Once Richie flips them both with the force of his wriggling, he spots Eddie, then spots the spray.

A brief, unspoken conversation passes between them in a language Eddie thought he had long-since forgotten: _The moment I let go, get him,_ Richie says, expression wild with mania and panic.

Eddie nods, steeling himself.

Richie lets go.

Eddie charges forward, only spraying wildly once he advances on Henry.

That’s the good thing about being mousy and unseen, Eddie thinks; only the people who are looking for you ever really know you’re there at all.

Henry screams in agony, stumbling backwards into Richie. He pins Henry’s arms back behind him, forcing Henry to drop the weapon.

“Do it, Eddie! Get it!” Richie yells. With Henry struggling to get his arms free so he can clutch at his reddening face, or reach for one of them, Eddie has enough time to dip down, drop his keys and snatch the knife up instead.

Somehow through it all, Henry laughs, choked and hoarse and so, so evil. “You really gonna kill me, homo? I don’t think you got it in ya, to be honest.”

“C’mon, Eddie, do it,” Richie begs, eyes pleading. Eddie’s hands are damp with sweat where they twirl the knife in his hand, thinking it over. “He’s just gonna kill us the second he can.”

“I know he is,” Eddie says. His voice is unfamiliar, even to himself; completely devoid of emotion. His arm aches—phantom pains from an injury caused by the hands of this man in broad daylight and long since forgotten. He ignores it. Eddie has always been skilled at ignoring his own pain. “It’s been a long 27 years since you last saw me, Henry. I don’t think you’re really in a place to be making assumptions.”

“Nothin’s changed, has it, queerboy?” Henry chuckles, coughing wildly, eyes squinted and swollen shut. It severely undercuts the menacing tone he’s going for, Eddie thinks, but the name he uses still cuts like a knife. Henry wouldn’t even know it was coming if Eddie were to— “Still the same old, wimpy little fag you always—”

Eddie pulls his arm back and plunges the knife deep into Henry’s gut. Henry pitches forward, curling in protectively against the pain. When Eddie hitches the knife upwards into Henry’s sternum, Henry gags soundlessly. Eddie leans in close and says, voice low, “You’re right, Henry. I’m just the same old wimpy little fag.”

Henry goes limp in Richie’s hold, and then he drops the the floor and out of Richie’s suddenly slack grip. With his eyes bright red and swollen shut, blood trickling out the corner of his mouth, and a knife sticking straight out of his body, Henry Bowers finally dies on the floor of the Derry Townhouse.

Eddie looks up at Richie, and when he sees the terror in his expression, Eddie’s hands finally begin to shake.

And then his eyes find Mike, bleeding out on the carpet, half conscious, and he knows he has more important things to tend to than terror.

“Fuck! Fuck, _Mike.”_ Eddie pitches forward, stumbling over Henry’s body, laying prostrate in a pool of blood. Richie catches one of his wrists and walks them over to Mike.

His eyes are only half open, a deep bruise underneath his eye and there’s a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth when Mike weakly begs, “Help me,” before his eyes slip closed and he passes out completely.

They do. After everything Mike has done for them and for this ungrateful town, it’s the _least_ they can do.

Together, they drag Mike’s prone body out on the stoop. Luckily, they’re on the first floor, and due to the late hour, the concierge has already gone to sleep. Eddie’s sure the staff here wouldn’t like them dragging their bleeding mayor through their carpeted halls, but neither of them can think of anything else to do; if they left Mike’s body in the room, they’d find Henry Bowers, and that certainly wouldn’t go over well. Eddie killed someone. Eddie killed his childhood bully. Eddie is a killer. He—

He can’t think. He won’t think.

They’re shocked at how fast Derry Home Hospital sends an ambulance. The EMTs don’t ask questions the two of them don’t know how to answer, and Eddie is grateful for that; they just quickly strap him to a stretcher and fly off into the night, lights spinning and sirens wailing.

Eddie doesn’t allow himself a moment of rest, mind reeling with the void of his own emptiness long after Mike is gone. He doesn’t remember going into Richie’s room, but looks around to find them in his bathroom. The only reason he knows it’s even Richie is because it smells of his aftershave. He’s so numb to the world that he barely notices when Richie attempts to undress him.

“C’mon, Eds,” Richie urges quietly as he tugs on Eddie’s belt with vacant eyes and shaking hands, the first words he’s spoken since before Henry died, “you gotta get cleaned up, alright?”

Eddie looks down at his hands, stained with Henry’s blood, and doesn’t feel a thing. He shucks off his pants and doesn’t even notice it when Richie looks down to his toes before helping him into the shower, making sure the water temperature is lukewarm. The minute Eddie’s feet hit the porcelain and Richie closes the curtain, he throws the cold knob all the way off and lets the burning stream scald his skin and force him clean. He watches the blood circle the drain until it runs through clear. He thinks he hears a laugh coming from somewhere down below, and even though his body seizes up in fear, Richie doesn’t react, so he figures it must’ve been a trick of the mind.

Eddie scrubs at his skin raw for long enough that Richie’s voice pipes up from directly outside the shower. Eddie wouldn’t be surprised if Richie hadn’t moved the entire time, expecting him to fall or hurt himself or break down in tears, because that’s what Eddie is: he’s just a wimpy little fag.

“Eddie, it’s been 40 minutes, are you—”

“I’m fine,” Eddie answers, voice clipped and snappish. Richie doesn’t ask him again.

The water eventually runs back to lukewarm, and then cool, and then ice cold. Eddie still stands beneath it, itching at his skin like he’s somehow going to wash away the _unclean_ from inside him, the _murderer_ off his hands. After about an hour, Richie reaches in himself and shuts off the water; Eddie is half-grateful because he knows he would’ve never done it left to his own devices.

Eddie shamelessly throws open the curtain, searching for a towel, but Richie is already holding one up for him, covering Eddie’s body from view. It’s huge and white and fluffy and Eddie wants to fall asleep in it. He isn’t tired in the least, adrenaline still running through him and wiring his nerves, but he still wants the safety of sleep. Dreams have never hurt him. Dreams are where he can be himself without fear or judgement. They’re the only time he can. In his dreams, he isn’t _unclean_ or _gay_ or _a murderer._ He’s just Eddie without need for the messiness of labels he refuses to entertain.

Half-dreaming, Richie leads him back into the room. He holds out a bathrobe, and Eddie isn’t sure where it came from, but it’s the same clinical white as the towel, so it must belong to the townhouse. Richie asks him to sit on the bed and not to go anywhere while he showers himself.

Eddie stares at the ceiling as he listens to the water run. Richie’s California King (the extravagant bastard, Eddie grouses halfheartedly) is comfortable and soft, but it still doesn’t make him feel tired. His body is kinetic, electric, like there’s so much pent up energy waiting underneath his skin, urging him to crush the earth into pieces. Shapes form on the ceiling until Eddie sees a smile with rows and rows of teeth. His stomach lurches, but other than that, he doesn’t react. His mind too disconnected from reality to feel scared, so eventually, the shape dissipates back into the ceiling, and Eddie forgets it was even there at all.

Ten minutes or forty minutes or two hours later, Richie comes back in the room. He’s wearing only his boxers, hair half-dry as he quickly rubs the towel over it, and because Eddie doesn’t feel real, he allows himself to observe Richie shamelessly. Richie is slim, but his muscles are defined, and they become even more so when he strips the towel over his head. The hair leading down his stomach is dark and thick, and his chest is broad and strong. If Eddie were more real, he thinks he might want to touch him.

Richie drops the towel on the dresser and finds Eddie still staring at him. He makes a face like he wants to tease him about it, but instead, he asks, “How ya doin’?”

Eddie just shrugs, eyes glassy and unfocused. Richie comes over and sits on the edge of the bed, like there isn’t more than enough space for them to lay beside each other without touching. Richie reaches his hand out, like he’d done with Beverly when she left reality. Seeing the action alone forces a little bit of himself to come back from where it was hiding.

“Eds?” Eddie smiles at the name and slips his hand into Richie’s, shifting his eyes down to Richie’s fingers. They’re devoid of clunky rings now, maybe having taken them off to shower, and his nails are short, but not clipped. They’re a bit ragged, like he chews them when he’s nervous. There’s small calluses on his fingertips borne from noodling around on string instruments. There’s a small, unidentifiable tattoo on the heel of his palm; Eddie turns his hand to look and finds only a decently faded circle. He hums consideringly, but doesn’t ask about it.

“Don’t call me that,” he says instead.

Eddie’s eyes trail up Richie’s arm and find his eyes, and sees Richie is smiling. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Eddie responds, voice loose and hoarse, like he’d been screaming, or maybe crying. He doesn’t remember doing either, but figures, with the hazy gaps in his memory between the Chinese place and now, it’s possible. “Am I okay?” Eddie asks. Probably the wrong question, considering Richie frowns.

“I dunno, Eds. That isn’t up to me.”

Eddie nods, but then changes his mind and shakes his head. “No, that’s not true. I can’t decide for myself. I don’t know how I feel, so you have to tell me.”

“That’s not how I roll, sugarplum,” Richie says, inching closer but refusing to let go of Eddie’s hand even as he shifts. “No one else can tell you how you feel but you. Not me, or your wife, or anyone, okay? Just you. You’re the only one who lives up there.” Richie ducks his head, trying unsuccessfully to meet Eddie’s eyes, and taps his temple. Eddie’s lips twitch up, the ghost of a smile. “So, whatever you feel, it’s chill with me.”

“Really?” Eddie asks, barely a sound, his mouth moving the word, but nothing coming out. Richie hears him anyway.

“A’course.” Richie squeezes his hand. “What do you want, Eddie? What do you need?” Eddie looks up to meet his eyes.

 _Eddie,_  the note said, _what are you looking for?_

The thing is, Eddie _knows._  He has all his life. He knows exactly how he feels, exactly what he wants, exactly what he’s been looking for, and has been spending so long pretending he doesn’t due to being told the unseemly nature of it. But Richie has given him permission to now, explicit permission to feel whatever and however he wants.

And he wants, _needs_ — “You.”

Time slows to a stop as the two of them look at each other. Richie’s eyes have changed hue again, the blue dark and endless like a raging sea. Eddie gets a little lost in them as he slowly comes back to himself. He stretches his fingers and toes, the joints in his knees cracking as they extend and release. Notices the scratchy material of the bathrobe against his skin. Feels the tacky heat from the steam of the shower and the humidity that’s made its way inside. Eddie has almost forgotten he’d spoken at all by the time Richie finds the right words.

“You mean you want me to stay?”

“Well, it’s your room,” Eddie smiles, warm and inviting and real once more. Richie lets out a relieved breath and settles against the pillows a bit.

“And you want to stay, too?”

Eddie nods, “Uh-huh. Is that okay?”

“Oh, fuck. I mean — Yes! Yes, of course. Obviously. Duh. 100%.”

“I get it,” Eddie giggles, curling onto his side and pulling Richie with him by the hand. Once they settle on the bed, facing each other, Eddie releases his grip on Richie’s fingers to instead pick at the stitching of the comforter. “I feel like I should be nervous or something.”

“How come?” Richie asks, grinning and bobbing his eyebrows up and down.

“I… I don’t really know,” Eddie frowns, staring at a loose string he’s pulling instead of Richie. “You make me kinda crazy.”

“Yeah, Richie Tozier’s been known to have that kind of effect on folks,” he laments. “A tragedy, really. Never get a moment to myself without cute boys crawling into my bed.”

“Oh, shut up,” Eddie grumbles, trying not to laugh and failing. “I just mean _you_ make me nervous.”

“Oh,” Richie says, a little taken aback. “Well, that’s certainly not my intention.”

“I know,” Eddie sighs, meeting his eyes again. “That’s what makes it worse.”

“Oh, yeah?” Richie leans in just a little bit closer—enough to be noticeable, but not enough to comment on. “How’s that?”

“You just… You’re so yourself, always. I thought after all this time, things would’ve changed, but they haven’t.”

“A lot’s changed, Eddie,” Richie replies with an edge of darkness in his tone.

Eddie shakes his head, “I know. I mean…” He waves his hand in the unidentifiable space between the unfilled parentheses of their bodies. “With us.”

“You remember that?” Richie asks, voice wavering with doubt.

Eddie just shrugs, feeling slightly embarrassed by how _much_ he remembers, “Of course.”

“Unfortunately, not of course,” Richie says.

“I don’t remember… actions… as much as _feelings,”_ Eddie says, trying to choose his words carefully. “And I suppose those feelings must’ve turned into actions at some point.”

“They did,” Richie replies, vague enough for Eddie to let it drop if he wanted.

He doesn’t want to. He knows exactly what he wants, maybe what he’s always wanted. He kicks one foot out and slips it between Richie’s bare calves. Richie nudges closer, enough now that Eddie could say something about it if he wants, but the quiet is soothing. There’s a dead body a few rooms over slain by Eddie’s hand, Mike is undergoing surgery a few miles away, the rest of his friends are sleeping soundly in the same house, and a monster is wide awake below them.

And here in this room in the quiet are Eddie and Richie who know what they want and for the first time in a very long time are able to have it.

It isn’t Eddie kissing Richie, or Richie kissing Eddie, like he’s become so used to. With Myra, Eddie has to let himself be kissed. But right now, neither of them have control over the kiss. Neither of them want it. It almost seems like now, with so little space between their skin, they’re one whole person. Like they were never really apart at all.

It happens naturally, the removal of his robe and Richie’s boxers, like they were waiting for the string keeping them apart to snap, and now that it has, they see no point in wasting time. Richie pulls a condom and a bottle of lube out from his suitcase when Eddie asks for it, and from the first push of his slick fingers into Richie, Eddie realizes that this is what he was looking for all this time. Not sex, not boys, not even really Richie at all, but control. With Richie writhing beneath him, pliant and content to let Eddie take whatever he wants from him, Eddie feels like he finally has control. Not over the situation, or over Richie, but over himself and his own emotions.

Sex with Richie is everything and nothing like he remembers it.

The pretty words falling off Richie’s lips, the way they kiss at every possible turn, the way Richie reacts so strongly to everything Eddie does, all of that is familiar enough that Eddie misses it even though he has it all in the palm of his hand. But the way Richie feels when Eddie slowly pushes into him, the way their bodies have matured and strengthened and changed without each other, the way Richie looks as Eddie leans over top of him, with his head thrown back, his curls in a halo around his head and his bruised neck bared, all of it is uncharted territory.

Eddie notices for the first time the finger-shaped marks along the column of Richie’s throat. He pauses his movements without pulling out and reverently ghosts his fingers over them. He looks up at Richie questioningly, and Richie tightly jerks his head sideways, towards Mike’s room where Henry’s body still lays. “Asshole tried to choke me out.”

Eddie frowns, and leans down to gently press his mouth against all five bruises. He doesn’t suck or bite at the skin, just laves his tongue against it, like maybe he can heal Richie from the outside in. By the time he pulls away so he can start moving again, Richie’s chest is heaving.

And Eddie doesn’t want to _cry_ during sex, Jesus Christ, he’s not a fucking teenager. But the way Richie feels clenched around him and the sweet little breaths that are punched out of him with every roll of Eddie’s hips, it’s all far too fucking holy for tears to not spring to Eddie’s eyes. He thinks it’s only natural. It’s been more than 20 years since he had sex that didn’t make him a little nauseous the entire time, 20 long years since he actually made love. His palms press into the flat planes of Richie’s chest, down his defined abdomen, over the strained muscles in his arms as he holds tightly to Eddie’s hips, trying to urge him to go faster. Every inch of Richie screams masculinity, and it makes Eddie a little dizzy as his hips stutter with lust where he’s buried deep inside him.

Richie chokes, back bowing, panting, “C’mon, baby, faster, faster,” voice somehow both dark gravel and velvet. A tear drips off the tip of Eddie’s nose and splashes onto Richie’s neck. They both ignore it.

Here the thing about tonight: Eddie knows without a shadow of a doubt that this is his last night on earth. He knows that if there were even the slightest chance he’d make it out of the sewers alive tomorrow, he wouldn’t be doing this. Eddie isn’t a cheater. Eddie is married; the proof of it sits on his left hand where it’s pressed against Richie’s shoulder, striking his trimmed nails deep enough into Richie’s skin and down his chest like it’s going to spark, but instead only comes away with red marks. If tomorrow weren’t inarguably his last day on earth, maybe he’d be able to resist the magnetism between the two of them.

But he knows it is, and he knows he can’t.

Tomorrow, Eddie Kaspbrak will die underground in a town that time forgot, and he’s okay with that. That’s just fine with him. He made a deal with God 23 years ago in a hospital waiting room to spare Richie’s life so long as he goes too soon. He’s not proud of the life he’s wrought for himself or the choices he’s made, but when Richie comes untouched between them, and Eddie falls into oblivion right after him, half-crying from the force of it, he thinks it’s enough. It’s ecstasy, really.

It’s still enough and it’s still ecstasy when he wakes up the next morning swathed in blankets and sunlight, and Richie still naked and curled up behind him, pressing light kisses to the skin on the back of his neck. Eddie always liked sleeping because dreams were his preferred way of living. The realization that this is better than any dream his subconscious could’ve conjured is enough to bring him to tears before he even opens his eyes.

Richie’s thumb pets the skin underneath his navel, his stomach becoming slightly rounded naturally over the years. He doesn’t have the strength to feel embarrassed about it, especially when he feels Richie smile against the back of his neck. His body is his body, and Richie seems to like him just fine, even with the weathering time has done to him.

“Hey,” Richie says quietly, voice rough with sleep. “You up?”

Eddie nods, not trusting his voice right now. He knows if he were to talk, he’d only start crying even harder.

“So, today,” Richie says, and Eddie’s anxiety peaks at the mere mention of their uncertain futures, but then Richie’s continuing like he can’t feel Eddie shaking violently in his hold, “we’re gonna drive down to Malibu, right? Go hiking at that beach you can’t stop talking about—you know, the one with the awesome views? My sneakers finally dried from when I went puddle jumping on our trip to visit my ma up in Seattle.” Richie chuckles quietly, the sound vibrating against Eddie’s skin. “God, you really let me have it after that. You knew getting the suede sneakers was a mistake—but they’re rainbow, Eds! Different colors on each shoe!”

“You look like a hobo,” Eddie chuckles, voice wet, but he doesn’t really care, “like you found two different shoes on the side of the road. Even the shoelaces are two different colors; you’re a headache to look at. With all that money, you’d think you’d be able to buy some proper rain boots.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Richie says, smiling so hard his teeth graze the skin of Eddie’s neck.

“You cook breakfast?” Eddie asks, refusing to open his eyes and tear himself from the vision in his head. He’s always fallen victim to maladaptive daydreaming, but he thinks in the face of certain death, playing pretend for a little while isn’t so bad.

“Yep. Burnt to a crisp.” Eddie laughs quietly, like he’s afraid he’ll wake the world and remind it they’re there at all.

“Still edible?”

“Oh God no. Diner?”

“Course. Our usual spot?”

“Already waiting for us.”

And it’s _nice,_ Eddie thinks. It’s so nice that in some world parallel to theirs, a Richie and Eddie like this exists. He hopes they have a good day.

“Rich?” Bill’s voice comes through the door, knocking softly. “You up?”

“Yeah,” Richie croaks out, a stark difference from the slick softness from a few moments ago. “I’m up.”

“We’re meeting downstairs in t-t-ten and then heading out. You got Eddie?”

“Yeah,” Richie sighs, hands squeezing where they’re clutching Eddie’s skin, “I’ve got him.”

“‘Kay. Ssss-s-see you guys soon.” The footsteps fade and Eddie goes to get up, but Richie only clutches him tighter.

“Wait,” Richie says, voice tight with energy, like he’s about ready to explode, “just… Just for a minute longer, okay? Don’t open your eyes, just — just stay with me a sec, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie whispers, turning in Richie’s hold to find his hair and digs his fingers into Richie’s curls, the way he knows calms them both down like nothing else. He smooths Richie’s messy hair back methodically away from his forehead over and over until the harshness and rapid speed of both their breathing fades into something more normal.

Richie hikes his thigh up around Eddie’s hip and presses his nose into his hair. When he takes his first deep breath, Eddie hums encouragingly, running his fingers down the knobs of Richie’s spine.

“That’s it, baby. Just breathe.”

Richie kisses the top of Eddie’s head a few times, then migrates down to press a long one to his forehead. Eddie smiles and cracks one eye open to find Richie already looking at him. “Cheater,” Eddie whispers.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t open _my_ eyes,” Richie grins. In the light of day like this, kissing feels a little bit foolish, a little futile, but they do it anyway. Their lips find one another’s so easily, it hurts to breathe.

“C’mon,” Eddie says against Richie’s mouth, running his hand down his side and settling on his hip. He presses his thumb into the hollow between Richie’s hipbone and his stomach, wishing he could urge Richie to memorize this feeling for him, because Eddie knows he’s the only one between the two of them who has even half a chance of carrying it out of Derry. “Let’s go.”

Eddie knows that Derry, Maine is a death sentence; all of them do. He knows everyone who falls into its trap never gets out alive and unmarred. But he thinks that every town might be like that in their own right; maybe the City doesn’t have the same supernatural evil that Derry does, but it was a trap just as much as this place is. He never left, never saw the need, figured if he had his deli and his business and his secrets, he had everything he needed.

Eddie may die in Derry, but it’s also the only place he’s ever felt alive, so he thinks the trade off is good enough.

It’s good enough when they descend into the sewers, down two Losers, no longer Lucky Seven. It’s good enough when they face off against It as fully-grown adults with fully-grown fears. It’s good enough when Eddie realizes they’re losing. It’s not good, but it’s enough when Richie cries out for help, him and Bill caught in the web of Pennywise’s deadlights. And it’s more than enough when he fearlessly thrusts his arm out, spraying his inhaler in the Spider’s eye, and comes away without them both.

He’s always been willing to die for any of them, and he supposes that might’ve been why he did in the end. He asked God to take him early, and Eddie’s so glad He did. He would go to the ends of the earth if it meant sparing his friends. Sparing Richie.

Richie, who falls out of Pennywise’s trap only the find Eddie bleeding out at his feet. Richie, who calls out for everyone, but only Bev can come, the rest too distracted trying to finish what Eddie started, quickly unbuttoning her shirt to tie off what’s left of Eddie’s arm, his family. Richie, who strips his belt from his waist to try to add to the tourniquet, but knows it will do no good as he touches Eddie’s cheeks with dirty hands, urging him to do something, anything, to—

“Look at me!” Richie pleads as Eddie comes back out from under the shock of blood loss with him palming his cheeks, trying to turn him closer. There’s a type of pure desperation in his voice that Eddie hasn’t heard since the last time Richie begged him to do the same thing, to look at him because it would be a far nicer way to go than down the into deadlights.

 _Look at me,_ he told him when they were 13 on Neibolt Street. _Look at me,_ he pleaded as they grew from boys to men, men who would rather hide away than open their eyes. _Look at me,_ he begs at 40, beautiful and numb and and angry and empty. Eddie aches for all of Richie’s loss. All he still has yet to lose. “Eddie, c’mon, don’t _do_ this! Look at me!”

“I am,” Eddie smiles, eyes barely cracked open. _I finally, finally am,_ he means.

 _Eddie. What are you looking for?_ a voice floats through his mind, a pastpresentfuture voice.

 _I finally, finally found it,_ he tells it.

“Richie,” he coughs, blood bubbling in his mouth.

“Yeah, Eds?” Richie’s eyes are wide and wild and frenzied, and finally, Eddie isn’t scared. It took him so long to get to a place where fear wasn’t constantly coursing through his body, but now, his inhaler and his arm are lost inside the belly of the beast that has haunted him all his life, and he doesn’t care. He has no urge to reach for either of them. All they are is empty space. He's only ever been empty space. He cracks his eyes open fully and reaches instead for the one thing that always made him feel safe, the thing he spent 22 long years without.

The moment his shaky fingers touch Richie’s cheek and wipe gently at the tears gathering there, Richie’s breath catches loudly in his throat. He has spent 22 years locked in the closet by his own design, so he doesn’t remember the last time he was touched by someone who isn’t Richie that made his heart beat like this—a rapid, unfettered thing. But as it is, Eddie isn’t looking at the clown, doesn’t remember the clown at all, Richie’s hands are still cupping Eddie’s cheeks, and he’s the only thing Eddie can or wants to see. So Eddie lets his neck roll loose, and lets Richie support him the way he wishes he could’ve when they were 18.

“Don’t call me that,” he rasps, blood drying on his upturned lips. Richie lets out a sharp sob because even though Eddie can’t say it, they both still remember what that means: “You know I… I…”

And God, he’s so tired. His thoughts taper off as his words dangle in the air. He doesn’t remember shutting his eyes, but he must’ve, because the last thing he feels is Richie’s chapped lips pressed against the apple of his cheek.

“I know,” Richie whispers against his skin, only for Eddie. “I know you do, Eds.” Eddie curls his hand weakly into Richie’s hair, quiet gratitude for everything he's always been unable to express, and finally lets go.

He blinks his eyes open some time later to the sound of Bill’s voice. He doesn't know how long it's been since he last saw the world. Minutes? Hours? He isn't even sure if he's dead or not, but then he feels Beverly supporting his head on her folded legs and keeping pressure with the makeshift tourniquet. His whole body aches, the epicenter of it at his shoulder, still steadily trying to pump blood to something that isn’t there anymore. He _swore_ he’d—

“No,” Bill says, and he sounds more like an open wound than anything on Eddie’s body, and he’s fading again, fading, fading, “it’s not my fffff-f-family you wanted. It’s me.”

“Humans,” It sighs, a mocking sound, with that constant sharp edge of maniacal laughter in its voice, “always making things about themselves.”

“But isn’t it?” Bill asks, voice raw and hoarse like Pennywise still has the same vice-grip around his neck it did when they were kids. He sounds identical to the way he did 27 years ago, and that alone is enough to keep Eddie from going black once more. He distantly feels Beverly trying desperately to put pressure on her tourniquet wrapped around what’s left of his arm—perhaps her shirt, or a belt; maybe both. It wouldn’t matter either way. He’s dead regardless.

Fear of clowns forever. Blood in the sewers forever. Of course Eddie was right.

“You wanted fear. You wanted it, and now you h-h-ha-have it. I am nothing left but fear.” Bill’s voice is shaking, but he still sounds so strong. Always the strongest person Eddie’s ever known. Stronger than Eddie could ever hope to be. “Is Eddie scared?” Silence. _Sniff._ Bells then, shaking back and forth rapidly. Silence. “No, he isn’t. He expected this. But he shouldn’t have to be the one to die for us. He isn’t the one who lead us all down a hole on a suicide mission. For vengeance.”

“Bill,” Richie says, closeby and far away all at once. His voice is disconnected from everything Eddie has ever known about him; he is only fear now, too. “No. Please, no.”

“It’s okay, Rich,” Bill says quietly. Two hands clasp together loudly, the type of union that cannot be ignored. Eddie hopes the union is Richie and Bill’s, standing tall, a united force again fear itself, just as they always were.

“What is left for you when there is only fear?” Bill asks, and while he sounds so scared, there’s still something so heroic about it. Maybe fear itself is the most heroic thing there is. “Flesh. Because that’s what you wanted, isn’t that right? _Fee-Feast on your flesh while I ffffeed on your fears._ Well, here I am,” Bill says, and Eddie can almost imagine him, arms splayed like he’s ready to win the war, like he’s just as ready to die for everyone around them as Eddie is, just like he always was, “take me, motherfucker. I’m ready.”

Something clatters to the concrete. Whatever Bill had been brandishing as a weapon. Silence.

And then: chaos.

_“—stay with—”_

_“—no Rich, I’ve got to—”_

_“—Bill, stop!—”_

And then there are no words—only the guttural screams of the rest of them remain. Eddie thinks it’s a deeper, sicker kind of intimacy than he ever imagined he’d have that he can tell his friends apart by their screams. The one heard least prominently is Bill’s. Eddie waits for it, but it never comes.

There’s shifting, feet slapping on the floor against the water, _I’ll be back for you, Eds,_ and then the heaviness of the door to Pennywise’s lair slamming shut.

Eddie is alone.

Except, he isn’t. He never was. He never will be again.

For a moment, he’d been sure that he’d died. All he felt was emptiness, like he was floating into the void. Maybe he had. Quietly slipped from the universe before he was shocked back by a thumping against his chest. Just once. Someone collapses onto him, enough to punch a weak stream of air out, to restart his heart in a way that won’t be at all scientific when he finally gets out of this place now that he’s got the chance to _(where there’s life, there’s still a chance at hope,_ Bill once said when they were said, once all of it was over and they’d crawled back into the light, and Eddie gets the feeling that he’s not going to get the chance to say that phrase again). It’s not enough to force any blood out past the tourniquet, just enough to get it weakly flowing through him once more.

Underneath the smell of rot, earth, and blood, there is sandalwood and lavender.

“It’s been 27 years, Bill,” Eddie chuckles weakly, “and you still haven’t changed your shampoo?”

“It wasn’t mine,” Bill wheezes, like his lungs have been cut out and he’s still trying to work his throat. He doesn’t need to continue, because Eddie understands. He does anyway, even through the pain he’s clearly in, ever the prolific son of a bitch. “I didn’t even know it was what Georgie used after I left. Our mom bought it for him because she read somewhere those scents lessen anxiety.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie prompts, voice so light for the fact that they’re both quite literally bleeding out together on the dirty concrete floor of the cistern.

“I’ve missed him so much, Eds,” Bill wheezes, coughs, sputters and spasms against Eddie before falling still once again. “Even when I didn’t know it.”

“I know you have,” Eddie says, voice so much softer than the screams they can hear echoing behind the door. Eddie reaches for Bill’s hand before he realizes he has no arm left to find him with. He winces and sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth from the movement of his shoulder before settling once again and using his other arm. He finds Bill’s hand and tangles their fingers together weakly.

“Bev makes a mean tourniquet,” Bill says, more of a sigh all in one breath than anything else. Eddie feels the warmth of blood pumping steadily from Bill’s mouth and seeping through his shirt, staining each other with life.

“You didn’t have to die for me,” Eddie says in lieu of answering, not wanting to sully the end of their lives by talking about death.

“I didn’t die for you,” Bill says, and Eddie can almost hear him smiling, “I died for every missing poster and all the nights I spent…” A long silence. Eddie worries that the light has already left him, but then he continues, much weaker than before, “...I know I’ve been awful.”

“Bill,” Eddie tries, heartbroken, but Bill keeps speaking as if he hasn’t heard Eddie at all. Maybe he really hasn’t.

“I was just gonna l-lllleave you here.”

“I know,” Eddie says softly, and he does, “it's okay.” And it is. “I love you.” And he really, really does. Eddie’s brother, his father, his friend, and his hero, all in equal parts. He loves Bill Denbrough more than he ever thought he could possibly love anyone.

“Are you scared?” Eddie asks, because he thinks it’s important for Bill to say either way.

“No.”

Eddie smiles, “Good.”

A long, pregnant silence. The sound of screams (Beverly’s and Richie’s primarily, guttural things that make Eddie frown slightly in concern) are muffled through the iron door, but Bill and Eddie are not listening for them. Out in the cistern, there are more important things to attend to than killer clowns from outer space. Out here, there’s humanity at its rawest form: the end of it, where there’s nothing left but the truth.

“I know I've been aw-awful,” Bill repeats, voice wafer-thin, “but I hope I get to see him anyway.”

“You will,” Eddie promises, sad despite the clarity he still feels and the heavy weight of all the years Bill has spent in mourning without even knowing it. He squeezes Bill’s hand—lightly, but still there while he still has the chance. “You will.”

“Don't let go,” Bill whispers, a final plea to Eddie, the world, and the darkness that surrounds them.

“I won't,” Eddie promises, “not ever.” And he means it.

“I hope I’m happy…” Bill says, barely a breath in the air. He falls silent once more, and Eddie can feel him breathing against him, half-struggle, half-gratitude. And then he goes still; all nothing. Eddie breathes out with him slowly for the last time just as Bill helped him do for years and years.

He squeezes Bill’s hand again. He privately says goodbye, to Bill Denbrough and to the world, as his eyes settle closed, too.

And then the door slams open once again and he hears the pounding of feet as two people tumble out.

“Eddie!” Someone shouts. If Eddie were more alive, he might be able to tell who. “Bill! Fuck! Please… No...”

Eddie is so tired. Too tired to try to figure out who is prodding him and Bill apart, who is sobbing, who is screaming. He just wants to sleep. Half life, half love.

“Fuck, Rich, he’s still — Eddie, he’s still got a fuckin’ pulse!”

A body splashes against the ground—Bill’s that Richie had been holding, Eddie presumes; the screams were probably Richie’s—and both pairs of hands are on him now. Eddie tries to open his eyes to get one final look at the only person he's ever loved like he's ached to since childhood, aging with the cloying feeling clumsily and ungracefully, but all he sees are faint shadows when his eyelids flutter. Still, he smiles.

“Leave,” he demands hoarsely, and while it’s the same word Bill rasped out in these sewers all those years ago, there are no tears this time. Only light. Maybe that is all that’s left of people in the end when there is no more fear and no more truth: just light. Eddie should’ve known. Unbiddenly, he thinks of a room drenched in a soft, pink glow. Tender touches. He only half-remembers in his weakened state, but it’s more than enough to feel safe. “Go be safe.”

“No fuckin’ way,” Richie spits, gathering him up in his arms. Eddie hears something large crumble and fall, but he pays it no mind. “We’re gettin’ the fuck outta here, babe, the four of us. _Ben, hurry the fuck up with those damned fucking eggs, we gotta Irish Goodbye this son of a bitch!”_

They’re moving through the tunnel, stumbling would probably be a better word for it because Richie is too weak to carry Eddie all on his own. “Oh, motherf—Bev, grab Bill. He needs—we need—”

“Okay,” Beverly cuts him off and she runs off to find him before something else falls. “Ben, _c’mon!”_

“I’m fuckin’ trying!” Ben shouts distantly, and that makes Eddie crack a smile once again. Ben never used to curse when they were kids, even the last time they were in the sewers. His anger was always pure rage in a way Eddie’s wasn’t—all guttural growls and wordless screams. He wonders what changed so much in 27 years to bring the vulgarity out of him.

Richie keeps moving, mostly talking to himself now as he rambles, “Gonna go to that diner on Sunset, just like we said. Yeah, gonna order a nice, big fuckin’ burger. Two burgers, actually. You can get your own meal, Eds, but I’m gonna eat two whole fuckin’ burgers and a whole damned basket of fries. You’d love their mozzarella sticks, babe. All crispy and shit, just how you like ‘em. Bet Maude is wond’rin’ where the fuck I ran off to, I’m in there so often. For 65 and half-blind, she sure can cook a mean cheeseburger.”

“Richie,” Eddie rasps, and Richie stumbles at the sound of his voice. He halts briefly, and then something collapses nearby, spooked into motion again.

“I’m here, Eds,” Richie says, panting heavily, “I’m right here.”

“Richie,” Eddie repeats, eyes cracking open to slits. He sees Richie trying to look between what little he can see in front of him with his dirty, cracked glasses, and what he can find in the expression on Eddie’s face. “Don’t call me that.”

Richie cackles once, high-pitched and manic, “I’ll never call you that ever again so long as I get to hold your hand in the light.”

“Only one to choose from now,” Eddie says, smiling a bit. He hooks his remaining arm, the left, around Richie’s shoulder both for stability and to punctuate his point. It took a lot out of him to move it, but it was worth it with the reward of Richie’s laugh, a crazed, broken sound that neither of them can fix. “And you didn’t let me finish.”

“Go ahead, then,” Richie says, not looking at Eddie anymore and choosing to focus on putting one foot in front of the other as the light coming from the cistern has faded almost entirely. Eddie hears two pairs of feet coming up behind them and _Richie! Eddie!_

“You know I love you,” is what Eddie finally, finally says, like the answer to a question posed 25 years ago and has been left wild and untamed ever since. It took literally dying to find the bravery to be able to say it, but the words finally tumble out of his mouth and into Richie’s waiting hands. Eddie wonders if it’s too late. Richie’s arms hold him up, strong and steady, like new walls for the safehouse he built around himself so many years ago. He kept those words hidden deep inside that house and let them run wild through the rooms, screaming themselves ragged.

 _I,_ Eddie, Eddie Spaghetti, Wheezy, Queerboy, Spaghetti Head, Eds, the only person he’s ever let beyond his defenses aside from the man holding him up right now, a new kind of foundation. _Love,_ a bird with wings that had been beaten and torn and broken until it could hardly even walk, fluttering uselessly inside the steel-trap of his heart for so long, he didn’t even know where to begin trying to set it free. _You,_ Richie, Trashmouth, Records, Four-Eyed Faggot, Bucky Beaver, Rich, _home._ All that’s left.

It’s all he’s ever wanted to say their whole lives. Fear, truth, light, they’re all gone. _Love_ is the last thing he feels before he dies. All that’s left.

“Fuck you,” Richie spits through his laughter and his tears, and Eddie can barely hear him now, every feeling and sound and sensation muted like he’s falling deeper underwater, “fuck you for finally saying it _now_ as you’re fucking _dying._ Wait ‘til you can look me in the eye before you even try to say it again, you absolute asshole.”

“I will,” Eddie smiles as Beverly and Ben reach them, and then everything goes black once more.


	21. Epilogue, Part II: August, 2016

_Live through this, and you won't look back_ _  
_

_There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave_  
_You were what I wanted_  
_I gave what I gave_  
_I'm not sorry I met you_  
_I'm not sorry it's over_  
_I'm not sorry there's nothing to save_

_I’m not sorry there’s nothing to save_

—Your Ex-Lover is Dead, Stars

 

Eddie has always hated waking up; dreaming has been his preferred state of being for as long as he can remember. In his dreams, he did fantastical, magical things. He could fly, dance, build, run; he could be free. But then, when he would open his eyes, he would be reminded of his life: the alarm ripping him from sleep for another endless day at work, or Myra snores droning beside him, or his mother’s shrill voice waking him for school.

So, when Eddie wakes up in the hospital to the steady beeping of his heart monitor and Richie quietly talking on the phone beside him, the first feeling he recognizes is dread.

This isn't the first time he's woken up either, he thinks; it's perhaps the third or even fourth time since being brought here. The haze of grogginess from forced unconsciousness feels far too familiar to not have happened before. He feels a sense of vertigo before he even opens his eyes. He tries to ground himself with his other senses, and it works. The sterile scent of the room, the dry, cottony taste in his mouth, the starchy blanket thrown over his legs, and the sound of Richie's voice.

Ah. Richie.

He notices that Richie sounds small and scared as he tries to speak softly, and Eddie blinks his eyes open to note small details. Richie’s knuckles are bone-white, his hand clenched around his cell phone—one of those new iPhones, the big ones that Eddie is (begrudgingly) unable to hold in one hand, but looks dwarfed from the size of Richie’s. His spine, rigid and hunched over. His matted, greasy hair, cascading in front of his face and hiding his expression. His fist curled tightly into the white blanket over Eddie’s legs, his knuckles just barely grazing his thigh as they twitch nervously.

The second emotion Eddie registers is relief.

God, he’s missed him.

“Rich?” Eddie croaks out, throat dry. “Who’re you talking to?”

Richie’s head shoots up, ripping his gaze away from his lap and speaking hurriedly into the phone, “Sorry, Ma, I gotta go, he—”

“Is that Maggie?” Eddie interrupts, cracking a small smile.

Eddie thinks he likes waking up now a lot more than he ever used to because there isn’t any alarm aside from the steady beeping of the machines as they work to heal him, Richie is there instead of Myra, his voice is soft and gentle unlike Sonia's, and Eddie doesn’t remember his body yet. Half-conscious, he still has two arms, unmarred skin, a whole, unbeaten heart, and is allowed to love the shocked smile on Richie's face.

“Yeah, it’s my ma,” he says, eye wide and owlish. “You remember her?”

Eddie nods, because he does, but barely. Images of Maggie Tozier dancing in a taupe-toned living room with Wentworth, cleaning up Richie’s toys for him with no fuss, making chocolate chip cookies with Eddie, Richie and his sister Lucy when they were all very young. Telling Eddie there’s no harm in only eating a little bit of the raw dough, and then subsequently needing to lightly scold Richie for taking a whole handful of it and licking it dramatically off his fingers. An undeniably wonderful woman, Eddie remembers, though it isn’t all entirely clear yet. There’s a hazy sort of joy that comes from remembering Maggie Tozier.

“Can I…” He clears his throat, trailing off without meaning to. Richie jolts and scrambles up like he's waking from a nightmare to feed Eddie some lukewarm water through a bendy straw from the cup by the bed.

He likes his water to be freezing cold when he’s away from Myra because it always feels a little bit like a pathetic sort of rebellion. _(“Eddie, sweetie, you’ll cut your mouth on the ice, and your teeth are far too sensitive.”)_ However, he doesn’t mind the warmth of it so much when he looks back at Richie and finds him letting out a relieved breath, like every time Eddie opens his eyes is a gift. Eddie never used to feel that way, wished he could dream his life away, but maybe, now, it is. “Can I talk to her?”

“Oh,” Richie says softly, angling the phone away from his mouth when one corner lifts in a sweet half-smile. “Sure, baby.” Eddie’s cheeks flush slightly at the pet name, one he’s gone so long without. (He’d always been Myra’s _honey,_ while Eddie stayed away from common names altogether and called her _Marty_ whenever he was feeling affectionate.) Richie tells Maggie he’s going to put Eddie on and they can both hear her gleeful shouts. Eddie chuckles quietly, but Richie begins floundering. “Do you want me to hold it up to your head, or—”

“Speaker?” Eddie requests, feeling too tired to move. Richie complies, holding it up by Eddie’s chin. “Maggie?” Eddie’s voice comes out as a whisper. He doesn’t even know if Maggie heard him, or even remembers him at all. He feels 13 years old again in the best way, in the way he always wanted to be; loved, appreciated and cared for, but not overbearingly so.

 _“Oh, hi, sweetheart,”_ Maggie coos gently over the line, much softer than her voice had been just a moment ago. Eddie wishes he could see her face, see how beautifully she’s aged. He doesn’t even know how old she’d be now, if Wentworth is still alive. _“How ya holdin’ up?”_

“Alright,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t really think that’s true. He revises his answer, “Better for right now.”

Richie smiles at him softly, full of so much emotion that it makes Eddie a little dizzy, the wild vertigo returning. He doesn’t think he deserves such gentleness, having said very little to warrant it, but Maggie’s voice comes out just as warm as Richie’s smile when she responds, _“I’m so glad, sweet boy. Is my Richard taking good care of you?”_

“He does his best,” Eddie grins warmly at Richie who lets out a scandalized gasp, but his smile never fades as Maggie laughs heartily over the line.

 _“Ah, I’ve missed that bite!”_ Maggie cheers. _“Are you feeling tired? You eating and drinking?”_

Eddie doesn’t feel stifled by these questions like he used to with Sonia and Myra. He just feels loved. “Yeah, pretty tired, a little bit through the IV, and yes. Richie’s giving me water whenever I ask, and even sometimes when I don’t.”

 _“That’s my boy,”_ Maggie chuckles, and Richie grins proudly. It’s from something so small and inconsequential, but it fills Eddie with light to see Richie have even an ounce of pride in himself; he had always been so self-deprecating, shooting down any genuine praise from anyone close to him. He hopes 22 years has changed that. Richie deserves to feel proud of himself. _“Do you want to go, honey? Rest a little? Sounds like you just woke up, I’m sure you’re groggy.”_

“Yeah, he never _was_ a morning person…” Richie sighs.

“Hey!”

 _“He’s right, sweetie, you really weren’t,”_ Maggie adds, which sends both the Toziers into tailspins of delighted laughter. Eddie just gapes soundlessly; anyone remembering something about his childhood is a shock to his system.

“Okay, ma, we’re gonna go.”

_“Alright, Rich. Wish Mike well, and say hi to Beverly for me, 'kay? And whoever else is wandering.”_

“Will do.”

 _“And Eddie?”_ A long pause. Eddie looks up at Richie, and thinks he might see the safety Maggie always managed to make him feel in the comfort of his eyes. _“You’re very, very brave, and I’m so deeply proud of you for being so strong. You’re a warrior, and you always have been. Alright, love?”_

Eddie sniffs, overwhelmed by the pure love pouring from Maggie’s words. He has no idea what Maggie was told about what happened, but he doesn’t think it much matters. “Okay,” he whispers, unable to bring himself to agree. He’s just doing what anyone else would: he’s surviving. There’s a big difference between surviving and living, and he hasn’t done the latter in a long, long time.

 _“Okay,”_ Maggie repeats softly, “ _bye-bye, boys.”_

“Bye, mom,” Richie says, voice a little thick as well as he ends the call. Eddie reaches out to pull him close, because he can now, because even though they haven't said so out loud, he knows that Richie is his and he is Richie's, and he wants to comfort him. However, he gasps harshly when he finds he only has one arm to reach with. His eyes are wild as he looks down at his body covered in a thick blanket. He starts thrashing, reaching for something that isn’t there, and he can faintly hear his heart rate rise over the monitor as he begins crying.

“No, no, no, no,” he moans over and over, unable to stop even as Richie tries to hold him down to keep him from getting hurt, but it's barely working.

“Eddie, you can’t, you’ll hurt yourself. Please, angel, stay still. The doctor will be h—”

 _“No!”_ Eddie wails, Richie getting cut off with a wince. “No, no, no, no, no!”

“C’mon babe, please, they’re gonna make you go black again if they see you like this,” Richie begs, looking to the door briefly like the doctors are going to swoop in and drag him out by the shirt collar. Eddie finally looks at him to find tears streaming down his face as he lightly cups the sides of Eddie’s chest in a vain attempt to keep him still. “Please, Eds, I don’t wanna — I don’t wanna be without you anymore. I'm so tired of being alone. Can I ask you to calm down if it’s for me? Can I be selfish?”

“Richie...” Eddie sobs, no longer desperate, but crumbling in a way that feels too familiar to not have happened before. How many times have they repeated this process? How many times has Eddie woken up only to be forced back under when he remembers his new state of being? “Richie, I-I wanna hug you but I _can’t.”_

“Oh, _fuck.”_ He carefully brings both hands around Eddie’s fragile frame and holds him up to pull him against his own crouched body. “I’m right here, okay? Every time you want a hug, I’ll be right here to give you one. You only have to tell me, or even just wiggle five pretty little fingers at me, and I’ll come runnin’. All right, sweetheart? You’ve got me. I promise that you’ve got me.”

Eddie presses his face into Richie’s shoulder as his sobs become hysterical once more. “Richie, I hate this. I don’t wanna do this anymore.” He feels childish, petulant, drugged, and most of all, tired. He doesn’t ever remember feeling this exhausted in his life.

“I know, Eddie baby. You don’t deserve this.” Eddie’s weeping loses intensity a bit as he reaches up with his arm to tentatively wrap it around Richie’s back.

“Is this… Is this still a hug? Is this enough?” Richie lets out a strangled, wounded noise, and clutches him tighter, pulling them flush against each other. Despite the sharp sting Eddie feels against his ribs from it, a gash there perhaps unbeknownst to him, he clutches back just as tightly, consequences be damned.

“Always, darling, you’re _always_ going to be more than enough.”

Eddie sniffs and nods. His voice comes out as a shallow whisper, hidden in Richie’s skin, “Okay.”

“Oh, it’s good to see you awake, Mr. Kaspbrak!” A nurse smiles from the doorway, and Eddie feels self-conscious enough to try pulling away, even though Richie holds fast, unwilling to let him go. “Oh no, it’s okay, Mr. Kaspbrak. You get all the affection from your husband you need, alright? After a traumatic incident like yours, it's good to see you getting comfort. Some patients don't have that luxury.”

“My…” Eddie’s voice is faint as he looks over at Richie who’s pulled away by now to let the nurse in to check Eddie’s vitals, dragging his chair back and decidedly looking anywhere but at Eddie. He wants to tease Richie about it, but he’s too delighted at the feeling of somebody thinking he has a _husband,_ and for that husband to be _Richie Tozier._ “Sure. Thanks, sir.”

“Of course. I’ll be out of your way in just a jiff.” He frowns consideringly at Eddie’s high pulse rate and blood pressure, turning to ask Richie if he should ask the doctor to up the dosage of Librium in his IV. Richie says, “if you think it’ll help,” but not much more.

“What’s Librium?” Eddie asks, picking at the blanket. He feels a bit silly for even asking; his mind feels cloudy, but he knows if he were more alert, he’d recognize the word immediately.

“For anxiety, Edward. Your husband informed us of your condition.”

“My condi…” Eddie turns to Richie who mimes releasing the trigger of his inhaler. “Ah.” They certainly have a lot to discuss. “Right.”

“I’ll talk to the doctor, I’m sure she’ll be in shortly. You rest up for now. Are you cold? How’s the shrinker feeling?”

Eddie shrugs morosely with his good shoulder, looking away from both men’s pitying gazes. “It is what it is.”

“Okay, Edward. What's your pain level at right now on a scale from 1 to 10?”

“7, I guess,” Eddie responds. “A dull kinda hurt.”

“The beauty of modern medicine,” the nurse smiles. “Do you have any questions?”

“Too many,” he says, eyes widening a bit. Richie snorts from behind the nurse.

“I’m sure. The accident must’ve been a lot for you.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, nodding, unsure of what story Richie has spun the staff, “You could say that.”

“Well, I’ll get out of your hair. You’re in the ICU right now, so family only, but in a day or so, you should be ready to go to a room in the Recovery unit where all your friends who have been ringing us off the hook will surely be waiting.”

“Sorry,” Eddie flushes, “they’re total assholes.”

“Nah, it’s nice to see so many people care about one patient,” the nurse smiles, waving, and backing out of the room.

The moment he’s gone, Eddie turns to Richie with a playfully raised eyebrow. “So. Husband, huh?”

Richie grumbles a little bit, looking down to straighten Eddie blanket, and Eddie laughs heartily. He ends up coughing towards the end of it, and Richie immediately reaches over to feed him some water. “They wouldn’t let me stay with you unless I was family, and I didn’t want to deal with the implications that _brother_ would’ve brought forth if they saw us like… well, like we are. So, husband.”

Eddie swallows, his own cheeks flushed as well as he settles back onto the pillows, eyes feeling heavy once more. “S’okay. I like it.”

“Like what?” Richie asks with a raised eyebrow, teasing as he rests his chin in his palm, elbow digging into the bed beside Eddie’s hip.

“Havin’ you…” He knows he should say more, but he’s tired, and he thinks that’s enough. It rings true regardless. Richie’s smile turns warm.

“I like it, too.” He leans up to press a kiss to Eddie’s forehead, then his nose, then his cheek, and lastly the corner of his mouth before pulling away to sit back down. “You tired, bub?”

“I am,” Eddie sighs, losing the battle to keep his eyes open. “But I wanna stay awake. Talk to you and the doctor.”

“I’ll write down what the doctor tells us when she comes in. And as for me, I’ll be here waitin’ for ya whenever you wake back up.”

“Y’promise?” Eddie slurs, mind already swimming with a hazy sort of sleep.

“There’s nowhere else I want to be,” he says, smoothing his hand up and down the side of Eddie’s thigh. “I’ll talk to you while you sleep, if that makes it easier?”

“You will anyway, though,” Eddie says with the flash of a grin. It only falls because he’s too tired to hold the expression.

Richie laughs, “Of course I will. You know me well. Choose a topic: my most recent comedy set, meeting Michelle Obama, or how much I love you.”

“Mmm,” Eddie hums, smiling lazily as he drifts and a nice sort of pins and needles feeling runs up his spine and gathers at his shoulder, bringing a strange type of relief to the pain. “Last one.”

“Certainly, my sweet prince,” Richie says in a posh Voice. Eddie giggles lightly under his breath. There’s a slight pause as Eddie gets comfortable before Richie continues, “I can’t believe how beautiful you became. Like, it’s kind of staggering to be perfectly honest. You used to be this pretty little spitfuck when we were younger, and I loved you then like I love you now, but after all these years, you’re like… you’re like magic to look at. Makes me wish I wrote poetry or some shit, instead of being a stupid actor. Other people write the words, and I say them, but you make me want to write words myself so no one else gets to have you like this. I know that's not possible anymore, but... Even like this, all battered and bruised, you are still the most absolutely arresting person I’ve ever seen. I work with all these famous assholes, and yet I would still choose to look at you in a room of all the prettiest faces in Hollywood. You’re unbelievable, Eds.”

“Richie,” Eddie smiles, wriggling out a small, protesting squirm and pressing his cheek into the pillow as the same warm, slow sparks dragging up his spine once again.

“What, my love? Am I _embarrassing_ you?” Eddie feels Richie rest his chin lightly on his hip, and wishes he could run his fingers through his hair, but he’s too sluggish with sleep to move his arm.

“No,” he defends, still grinning. There’s a long pause as Richie continues to drag his fingers up and down Eddie’s leg. “G’night,” Eddie sighs after a while.

“Night, Eds. Love you.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Eddie’s face as he nods, too tired to respond with anything more coherent, but the amount of adoration he still has for Richie after all this time is so miraculous, he wishes that he could. He resolves to whenever he wakes up, and allows sleep to finally wash over him.

For the next few days, waking up only to fall back to sleep an hour later is his life. Richie is always there when he wakes up. Eddie asks him to go back to the hotel and shower, teasing him about his stench and hoping he’ll sleep while he’s there, but all Richie says is that he can’t. The statement is foreboding—not that he won’t or that he doesn’t want to, but that he can’t. Odd.

Eventually, Eddie finds out why that is, but not from Richie.

It’s Bev who tells him that most of Derry has been leveled in a freak earthquake once he’s moved to Recovery. The scientists can’t explain it—a 6.7 in New England?—but Eddie shares a knowing look with her and tells her they probably won’t. Magnitudes and history don’t attest to how many lives have already been lost in their town.

Derry Home Hospital is a decent distance down the road leading to Bangor, and while there has been minor structural damage to the foundation, the nurses tell him it’s nothing to worry about when he needles for more information. All he knows is that most of the town he once knew, then forgot, then came to know all over again is gone.

 _Good,_ Eddie thinks, feeling bitter and vindictive for all he and everyone else has lost here. _We don’t need it._

Eddie is released two days after Mike is, and they all go back to his farm at the edge of town together. Mike didn’t file a report, said it was just a horrible mistake in the kitchen, knowing that Henry Bowers’ body is buried in the rubble that once was Derry Townhouse, and nobody pressed him on it despite all the bruises he had when he came in. Eddie couldn’t believe that; he’s the goddamn mayor. But all Mike said was that it’s the only time he’s ever been glad to be treated as subhuman and not worth the time or resources of the justice system.

Mike is the one to bring up going visit Stanley down in Atlanta together once everyone has fully healed. Mike has kept in contact with Patricia (Patty, she insists) and she tells them he’s going to return from his stay at an inpatient facility either tomorrow or the next day. Apparently, he’s been asking about them, Richie specifically. The doctors thought it was just inane drivel, the babblings of a psychotic break, but Patty assured them that his friends are very real, and while she couldn't confirm or deny anything else he may have mentioned in his fits of hysteria, the friends he has are very, very real.

After a while, the doctors got wise to this and asked Stanley to tell them about his friends—not the Clown he kept rambling about, but his friends. The longer he talked about the Lucky Seven, the more they found they were able to calm him down enough to take his medicine.

An antipsychotic, an antidepressant and a high dose of Remeron for sleep, Patty says. Without it, he just paces the halls aimlessly night after night.

All of them feel guilty, but Mike is wracked with the feeling deep in his gut. He’s missed his friend, and to know that what he said caused such a horrible reaction is killing him. He wants to visit him in person to apologize, to hug him and tell him it’s over.

And of course, there’s the matter of what to do with Bill’s body.

Calling Audra Denbrough is a massive undertaking. Mike asks anyone else to do it, as he says he’s made enough devastating phone calls to last a lifetime, and Richie surprisingly volunteers for the task. He writes an entire three pages worth of scratched out and rewritten notes with the help of the rest of them, but uses none of them by the time he actually picks up the phone. He holds Eddie’s hand in his own and relays the news.

She takes it better than any of them expected. She says he always wanted his ashes scattered over the Atlantic Ocean because he thought it was poetic, like Herman Melville would be proud. She says it so wistfully, half fond, and Eddie’s heart breaks for her. Richie tells him they’re going to Atlanta to visit a friend, and they promise to do exactly as Bill wanted on their way. He grips tightly to Eddie’s hand the entire time. He doesn’t crack a single joke for the whole duration of the call, and Eddie wonders if maybe Richie had been right; a lot has changed, and a lot will continue to change.

That much is obvious when all of them are together on their last night at the farm before they set out for Atlanta, as Eddie and Mike are finally healthy enough to travel. All the chores are done for the day, picked up by the three of them left with full use of both arms, and Mike has arranged for his page at the library whose parents perished in the earthquake to come stay at the farm, tend to it and take care of his dog while he’s gone. While Charlie is only 17, going to Penn State in the fall, he says he’s just fine with his parents’ grisly demise; according to the vague stories they heard when they met him, Charlie is lucky to have survived them. Eddie wonders if what bred such ugly, violent hatred in this town is finally dead.

It’s dusk now on the eve of their departure, and they all feel like they’re on the cusp of something brand new. Most of them have plans post-roadtrip: Ben is going to travel with Mike—show him the world and experience it in ways neither of them have been able to. They’re talking about taking Mike’s dog, Pibbins, with them due to his attachment to Ben. He’s currently curled up in Ben’s lap as they all sing.

And Beverly’s planning to live with her best friend of ten years, Kay McCall, when they’re finished visiting Stanley. Earlier that day, Eddie had teased Bev about this, needling for nothing, until Beverly told him, deadpan, ‘I love her.’ The silence after that had been all-consuming until Eddie breathlessly asked, ‘You mean…?’ ‘Yeah,’ she responded, ‘I’m a lesbian.’ And suddenly, so many things made sense about Beverly Marsh. The hug they shared was Eddie’s first with someone that wasn’t Richie since losing his arm, still gunshy about feeling less-than now—inadequate. He’s still reeling from the feeling of being trusted with such important and personal information hours later, and considering she has barely taken her arm away from around his shoulders since, Eddie thinks maybe Beverly is reeling from the trust Eddie put in her with their hug just as much.

After getting a warning call from Kay back in Chicago at the night before descending into the sewers that her husband got wise to their relationship and her location, nearly killing Kay in the process to get the information out, he was on his way to Derry. Beverly was prepared for a fight that never occurred. Tom had ended up getting gutted by the clown before he even made it to her, and when they passed his body on the way out, Beverly apparently had barely stopped to grieve—she just kept moving.

It seems like she hasn’t stopped moving since; nobody has. After bringing Bill’s body to the hospital with them, and then taking the urn of his ashes back to the farm with them, they’ve barely grieved the loss of their fearless martyr of a leader at all. Every available moment has been filled with distraction, whether it be working on Mike’s farm, or sewing clothes for the people at the homeless shelter in Bangor who have been displaced from the earthquake, or what they’re doing now: tending to the campfire beside the cornfield and singing songs together with the help of Mike’s old guitar. Maybe grief comes in different ways at different times for different people. Maybe this is grief: respecting someone’s memory by loving the life they died for you to keep.

Richie and Eddie had gleefully joined them for a while as the sun began setting, but Richie began getting antsy, tugging at the clothes he borrowed from Mike anxiously before dragging Eddie out of earshot. As soon as he lets go of Eddie’s sleeve, he begins pacing.

“This is stupid,” he mumbles, “you need… God, I’m so stupid…”

“What’s wrong, Rich?”

“Eddie, you can’t do this,” Richie rushes out, “You can’t come with us. You have to be back in New York in time for your appointment at the Hospital for Special Surgery.”

Eddie quirks his head, “But my consultation isn’t for another week and a half.”

“I know, but…” Richie sighs, tugging harshly at his hair with one hand. Eddie reaches out to grab it before he does any damage, and this action seems to snap Richie out of his reverie.

“Come with me, Eds,” Richie says, not a request anymore, but not quite a demand either; just pure desperation. Eddie wonders if he’s even worth this much. How long has Richie been waiting on him? Eddie tangles their fingers together and tugs Richie closer into his space without fear of how they must look to the rest of the group.

“I… Rich, I can’t. I-I have a business now, and doctors, and a wife.” Richie winces at the reminder, but Eddie has to continue, or he’ll have time to feel guilty for disrespecting a life he never even knew he had. “We made appointments in New York because the Hospital for Special Surgery is best with replacements like this. And…” He sighs and hangs his head, feeling heavy with unidentifiable shame. He isn’t ashamed of Richie, or even how he feels about him—not anymore. It’s more a feeling of pure despair, like Richie has been waiting too long for someone who can never fully commit and deserves so much better than the meager love Eddie can give him. “I’m an adult. I can’t entertain empty promises like I could in high school.”

“Empty promises? You think I’m not ready to make good on everything I’ve said?” Richie frowns, looking a bit wounded by the implication. Eddie just shrugs. “It’s not like you entertained my promises in high school, either.”

“Richie, that’s not fair!” Eddie cries, eyebrows pinching in with hurt. “The shit my mom put me through, I… I _couldn’t_ just run off with you, even though I wanted to. Of course I entertained it. It was all I thought about. Please believe me, Richie, please.” He’s begging now at Richie’s feet for scraps of affection like Richie had to do the entire time they were together. _Selfish, selfish boy,_ Eddie can hear in his mother’s, Myra’s, It’s voice.

Richie’s mouth pulls at his frown, pronouncing it so deeply that the lines around his mouth usually caused from laughter grow prominent, and he nods. He squeezes Eddie’s hand, an apology; Eddie had forgotten he was even still holding onto it. “I do. I believe you, Eds.” Richie pulls Eddie against his chest and wraps his arms around his waist, careful to avoid his right side. Eddie hooks his arm around Richie’s shoulder and sighs, letting his head rest against Richie’s chest.

“I’m so _tired,_ Rich,” he says, and he knows that Richie can tell he doesn’t just mean physically when he presses a long kiss to Eddie’s forehead.

“I know you are, sweetheart.” Eddie’s breath hitches and presses himself closer, moulding himself against Richie’s body as best he can. “There’s good hospitals in LA, I’m sure of it, and there’s just as many famous people in LA to drive around as there are in New York. I’m _one_ of them. Just—” Richie cuts himself off as his fingers dig into the small of Eddie’s back, like he’s trying to rip him open and crawl inside, live in his spine and hold him up forever. The thought is so disarming and appealing that Eddie has to choke back a sob. “Eddie, _please._ I miss you. I want to be with you. For real, forever. You’re my favorite person in the entire fucking world. Nobody comes even close.”

“Not even Beverly?” Eddie teases quietly, a half smile on his face as he toys with the curls at the back of Richie’s neck.

“She’s got Kay now, she doesn’t need me following her around like a dog anymore, pretending to be in love with her because I didn’t understand what love like that even was,” Richie snorts. “She knows her place in my heart, and I know mine in hers. We’re each other’s safe place, we’re family, but… You’re different to me, Eds. You always were. You’re family in a different way. I just… Even when I want to be alone, isolate from the insanity of my life, I still wanted you to be there. I wanted to hide from the world with you as kids, and I still do. When Hollywood gets to be too much for me, and when your arm gets to be too much for you, I want us to be there for each other. I want you around. Always.”

“I-I… But that was all bullshit, right? The shit you said at the Townhouse?” Eddie asks dumbfounded, almost trying to convince himself. Walking by the ocean, he remembers. A table always reserved for them at the diner. He still envies the Richie and Eddie who got their happy ending.

“It wasn’t bullshit then and it isn’t bullshit now,” Richie sighs, just on the edge of a harsh, clearly close to the end of his rope as he pulls away. Eddie feels bereft the moment their skin stops touching. _Selfish, selfish boy,_ Eddie can hear in Richie’s voice.

“You have a girl back home though, don’t you? Cindy?”

“Sandy. And so do you.”

“Pretty sure I like my girl back home a lot less than you like yours.”

“True. But I’m sure I’d like her a lot more if she were mine to have,” Richie shrugs. “Dumped me. Said I couldn’t commit, and that she needed to define herself outside of her relationships with men.”

“But… but you talked about her like you were—”

“Together? Yeah, I know. She was my longest-lasting relationship, even though she wasn’t one of the girls I married. I loved her a lot, but we both agreed we’re better off as friends, and still talk all the time. I was there for her at a time when she really needed someone safe, and I was glad to be that person for her. Still am. She helped me get past a really rough patch in my life, with the addiction and everything. We’re always gonna feel for each other, just not the same way we used to. However, saying we were an item to the Losers was a lot easier than admitting I was one of the only ones left of us pushing 40 and still single.”

“Ben is,” Eddie points out. “And Mike.”

“They both always seemed more interested in waiting for something to happen to them rather than going out and getting it.”

It’s a harsh but fair statement that Eddie could refute, but they’d both know is still true. “But that's not you,” he says instead.

“No. It's not.”

“But I’m… Richie, I’m so much more _broken_ than I was when you said all those things. You’ll have to take care of me. You deserve better than that. You deserve to be happy.”

And it seems cruel even to Eddie to turn some of the last words Richie ever said to him when they were kids back on him, but those words have been unknowingly swimming in Eddie’s head for years upon years. His whole life, he’s had _you deserve to be happy_ on repeat in his head, the voice distorted and unfamiliar from the veil Derry put over his memory, but the words themselves being more unforgettable than anything the clown could ever try to erase. Even when he forgot Richie, he never forgot those words.

Richie pauses, scrubs his hands over his face, and sighs. He’s clearly overwhelmed by how long he’s had to remain stoic and serious, on the brink of nervous, maniacal laughter, trembling forcefully. Eddie doesn’t know how to help without compromising the lies he’s been telling himself for years and throwing away his whole life on a pipe dream.

He tells himself that’s all they are: a pipe dream. In another life, another world, different circumstances, another chance to do things right, maybe. But they’re already both so _tired._ They’re beaten and battered and bruised and begging the world to allow them to have things that neither of them deserve. Eddie has no idea how the hell they can make a dream into something real.

Dreams like Richie Tozier are meant for sleeping, a place where Eddie can hide away in his subconscious and pretend for eight hours. Dream Richie is a false home, no foundation to build off of, and Eddie doesn’t have any idea how to merge the dream and the reality. The cognitive dissonance is almost too much to bear even trying. It’s all he’s ever known, having to live a life he enjoys in dreams. Reality is painful. Always. It has to be.

“Eddie, I don't know how else to convince you that I’m all in,” Richie sighs. He looks up, past Eddie’s head and towards the brilliant fading colors of the evening sky. Eddie does the same, and he can just make out the beginnings of the Big Dipper high above the fields—faint, but still present. “I've been trying to the entire time we've known each other and I’m so… God, babe, I'm tired, too. I wanna go home, and I want to go home with you. You're fucking _alive._ Don't you think we owe it to Georgie, and Adrian Mellon, and the Corchrans, and fucking…” He doesn't say it, but they both hear it anyway. _Bill._ “Please, Eddie. Don't make a grown man beg.”

And if this were 22 years ago, Eddie might've slipped his arms around Richie's neck and whispered _but I like it when you beg_ into his ear. But Eddie would've only been doing that as a diversion, something to take Richie's mind off the intense matter at hand, and he only has one arm now anyway. But the real fact of the matter is, he doesn't want to distract anymore. They’re both so tired, life has been cruel to them all, and if the rest of the Losers can get their chance at rebirth, why can’t the two of them?

For as long as Eddie can remember, he’s felt displaced. A nomad wandering. Homeless. But he wants to have a home now. He thinks he could be ready, and even if he isn’t, he _wants_ to be, and that’s more than he’s had going for him in years. Anhedonia and apathy towards his situation have consumed him, but he misses passion. He wants to feel it again. He wants to finally feel at peace. Bill fucking died for this. For them.

If Eddie listens hard enough, he can hear Beverly's loud, sharp giggle carrying over to them, Mike plucking a simple tune on a tired acoustic guitar, and Ben’s low, rumbling voice singing something old and soft and sweet. _We changed the world, we made it ours to hold, but dreams are made for those who really try…_

Ben’s voice goes up an octave, and for a moment against the wind of the open field, he almost sounds like Bill.

_Don't throw it all away..._

“Okay,” Eddie whispers. Richie’s head snaps up and his eyes are wide and his mouth is gaping soundlessly as he stares Eddie down, trying to find the lie always waiting in Eddie’s words.

But Eddie’s been lying his whole life, and he’s too exhausted to continue trying. Sonia Kaspbrak is dead, It is dead, Bill Denbrough is fucking dead, but they are not. They’re hurt, they’re bent and broken, probably beyond repair, but they’re not dead. Not yet. Richie’s right; if they owe a happy ending to anyone, it’s Bill. He closes his eyes. He hopes Bill is happy right now. He hopes Bill is watching them with Georgie and smiling together, cool on the floor of their den, laying beneath the air conditioner and holding hands. He hopes one day, when they’re all good and ready, they can join the two of them there. He hopes it’s a nice day in heaven.

 _Thank you,_ he says, to Bill, to Georgie, to Adrian Mellon, to every person who ever died for them to get this chance.

_Don’t throw it away..._

“Okay,” he repeats, voice stronger now. He nods and smiles, and Richie does, too.

“Okay?” Richie asks. All hope. More hope than Eddie ever thought could fit inside one body.

Eddie laughs a little bit, the sound ripping from his throat, shocked himself, and Richie joins him more out of instinct than anything else, but Eddie still nods again. “Yeah. Okay. I mean, it’s gonna be hard.”

“I know,” Richie says, bobbing his head as he walks closer, hands out, reaching for him.

“It’s gonna be _really_ hard, Rich. Not just relocating the company and… and-and divorcing Myra.” He sighs, shaking his head. “God, I don’t wanna hurt her. She may be a lot like my ma, but she doesn’t know any better, you know? She’s a sweet woman underneath it all, and she really does care about me. She loves me, and shit, I’m gonna ruin her because I was selfish.”

“By being too scared and scarred to come out of the closet? No way. That doesn’t make you even close to selfish. I’ve known selfish people, and you, Eddie Kaspbrak, could never be one of them.” Eddie can’t hold back his tears any longer, and lets his body collapse inward with a sob. There’s a sharp, phantom pain when he goes to wipe his tears and he can’t. He whines high in his throat at the ache, and Richie is immediately in his space, hands out and ready to catch anything that hurts him. “You good, peach? Where’s it hurt?”

“Nowhere,” Eddie says, and he hates that he means it. Richie picks up his hand and kisses his knuckles before playing with his fingers, forming them into shapes to distract him with things he still has, and help him not focus on what he's lost. A peace sign. Middle finger, which makes Eddie glare. ASL for ‘I love you.’ Eddie’s glare drops in an instant.

After a few minutes of this, Richie begins talking again, smiling wryly. “Plus, no offense Eds, but I think you’re not giving Myra enough credit. I talked to her on the phone, so I—”

“You _what?”_

“Yeah!” Richie reponds brightly, squeezing Eddie’s hand in a giddy, almost childish way. The ache in his shoulder returns, spreading down to his heart and making a home there, but it’s so much easier to withstand this time as Richie tangles their fingers together and grins.

“Called her while you were out the first time to let her know you were, uh… Hurtin’. Yeah, she asked if she should come see you and I said that was up to her. She asked a lot of questions about your care and the hospital’s staffing, had to speak to your doctor and everything which was a bit of an uncomfortable conversation considering, uh, she’s your actual spouse. I don’t even _remember_ how I bullshitted my way out of that lie. Was kinda on auto pilot ‘til you woke up. But eventually, she figured she could get more done for you in New York takin’ care of business than she could holed up in Derry. You didn’t tell me she was your secretary, too! I hope she blew you under the desk _at least_ once.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose and shakes his head quickly, trying to dispel the image. “Yuck.”

“Oh. Right. I forgot about—sorry,” Richie frowns, ducking his head. Eddie smiles slightly and untangles their fingers to press his palm to Richie’s cheek.

“S’okay, Rich.” Richie looks up at him, glasses shining in the last dregs of golden summer sun through the trees, and for a moment, Eddie can almost pretend they’re 18 again, he has both arms, and the world is at their fingertips so long as Eddie reaches out and grabs it, too.

But they're not 18; they're 40, and they're both leagues more mature than they were at that age. Time has changed them both; in good ways and bad. Eddie has been resigned to his fate for a long time; take this pill, fill this script, say these words, drive these cars. He's a zombie borne from apathy while Richie has been given the world on a silver platter. Everything except what he always really wanted—a home. Just like Eddie has always been searching for, but resigned himself to a fate of never finding.

Richie turns to kiss the thin skin of Eddie’s wrist, and Eddie is struck by their age, by how blatantly everything and nothing has changed. Still covering themselves with Masks and Voices, still defending themselves with steel armor to block out the world, still stuffed to the brim with love, so much it feels almost impossible to feel this much. Eddie can feel his blood pulse fast beneath Richie’s lips. _Alive._

“Myra’s so used to taking care of me, though, angel.” The name slips out as more of an impulse than anything else, but Richie still goes boneless with it regardless, like it's been so long since he was regarded as holy, and is relieved to know he still is. “It’s the way she shows her love, you know? Going back to her would… it’d make the most sense.”

Richie sighs, hooking his other hand over Eddie’s wrist and pressing his fingers into Eddie’s pulse point, grounding himself with Eddie’s heartbeat. “I _want_ to take care of you, though. I always have. That might not be the way I show my love, but… it must count for something, right? That I want to?”

Eddie nods slightly and gives him a half-smile, thumbing at the bruised skin underneath Richie’s eye. He wonders how much sleep Richie’s gotten since Mike’s phone call. “Of course it does.”

“Do you love Myra?” Richie asks, eyes wild and unnaturally wide behind his spare glasses, a bit desperate. “I know you’re not… into her sexually or whatever. But do you love her? I just want you to be happy and cared for, and if you’re really happy with Myra, I won’t bring it up again. That's all I really want is you happy and cared for, and if being with Myra will achieve that, then we can both go back to our old lives and pretend like none of this ever happened. I want you safe, I want you happy, and I want you to have love.”

Eddie decides to allow himself to really ponder the question, because he thinks he owes that much to the both of them, but most of all Myra. Richie’s right—she’s not a bad person, Eddie has simply seen a lot of his abusive mother in her, which has caused a lot of dissonance in trying to see the multitude of ways in which they _are_  different.

But when he tries to think about Myra, all he can think about is the staggering realization of how much Richie has sacrificed for Eddie, and how far he’s clearly still willing to go. It's heartbreaking, a tragedy that Eddie has forced Richie to live like this just because he's scared. _Selfish, selfish boy,_ Eddie hears in his own voice.

But they've both quite literally been to hell and back, faced down fear itself, slayed it, and came back breathing. Eddie doesn't think there's much about this world that could scare him anymore. The realization is so liberating, and Richie is by his side for it, not Myra, which is exactly what he wants.

All his life, Eddie has been afraid of freedom because he was taught to. The fear of falling apart without someone to control him were the iron shackles he was chained to life to by the wrist. But the shackles are gone, his wrist is gone, his fear is gone, and if losing Bill taught him anything, it's that when fear is gone, whatever’s left is worth holding onto.

 _Don't throw it all away…_ Ben, Bill, Richie sing.

 _Don't let go,_ Bill begs him, whispering through the veil and across the clear span of his memory.

“I don’t love her the the way you think,” Eddie settles on eventually, telling himself that Richie deserves him at his most honest; after all, he's waited so long for it. “I’m so used to my life with her, the monotony and comfortability of it, that I think I’ve grown to love her in a way, because she enables it, however unknowingly. I loved feeling controlled more than I loved her I think, and I would’ve rather had that than anything else. She doesn’t know about what we got up to as kids, the good, the bad and the evil. All she knows of me is a boring, mousy man who made a lot of money off of the right idea at the right time and planned on riding that out ‘til he died.

“She doesn’t know any of the Losers—none of their names, or how much they affected me. She doesn’t know that I cut off all your hair at a sleepover one night when we were 11 because I was mad at you for making fun of me about something totally inconsequential. She doesn’t know that I cried the whole night until you woke up from the sound of it and comforted me without even knowing your hair was chopped to bits. She doesn’t know the way you laughed when I finally told you, and how you only laughed harder when you looked at yourself in the mirror. She doesn’t know because I didn’t know. She doesn’t know how I loved you. How I… How I don’t love her. Not really. Not in the way I need to, or-or that I should.

“She doesn’t know that I’ve only ever fallen in love in Maine. I don’t think the love or the bad or the evil ever really leaves here. I think it all just stays, and we the only thing we take with us are our bodies. Nothing of substance left of us, no soul to speak of. We left Derry and came out fresh; brand new, with only the lingering subconscious effects of what happened to us here. No chance at healing from it. I can’t figure out if it was a blessing or a curse.”

Eddie sighs, fiddling with the bottom button of Richie’s borrowed plaid shirt, feeling raw and exposed, unable to track Richie's expression. “Why, Rich—you ever fall in love outside of here?”

“Yeah, I-I think so.” Eddie finally looks up to see Richie’s eyebrows screw inward, eyes unfocused and unseeing as he concentrates. “Maybe only sort of. I think I loved the people I dated in California—mostly Sandy—as much as I could, you know? It was different with me, I think; I mean, I like all sorts of genders, for one. But also, what happened to me here was way different than what happened to you, no matter how much we shared with each other, or for how long. I had a loving, supportive family who put up with way too much, and you never did. Breaks my ugly little heart to remember what you went through.

“I... I think loved Sandy because we helped each other. I was in a really shit place when I met her, strung out on coke pretty much constantly. She never judged me for it, just waited with me, albeit a bit impatiently, until I was ready to go to rehab. She was exactly what I needed at the time, and I was that for her, so I do think we really loved each other. And there were boys, too—a few. I didn’t have a problem being out of the closet in LA—in fact, it kind of made me more popular. Hollywood's liberal that way right now. It’s a cool accessory I can wear, my sexuality. Makes me more interesting to paps, more people they can spin stories about me hooking up with, but it also makes me more accessible to the queer kids lookin’ for a little guidance, or a hero. I’m not good at doing either, but I did my part, talking to kids who’d stop me on the street, and I’d do it gladly; they’re much easier to talk to than the paps. Sure, I still got those dumbass ‘your sexuality isn’t real, play for one side, you’re only ever gonna be a cheating slut’ comments, but the positivity outweighed all that bullshit.”

Eddie frowns, tugging on Richie’s shirt to draw him closer. “You’re none of those ugly things, you know.”

Richie smiles, brushing Eddie’s hair out of his eyes, “I know that, darlin’. But it’s nice that you do, too.” He kisses Eddie’s forehead, long and drawn-out, like he wishes he had the guts—or maybe the permission—to put the kiss someplace else. He pulls away with a long-suffering sigh. “So, yeah. I loved them. But…” Richie’s grin twists into something much more tragic. “I think I’ve only ever really been _happy_ with the six of you. And if being in love means being happy with them and with yourself, then you’re the only people I’ve ever loved.”

Eddie nods, hanging his head with a soft, sad laugh, “I know how you feel.”

“Wow,” Richie chuckles, smile slight, but cleaving his somber expression in two, “what a couple of losers we are.”

“Thank god, too,” Eddie grins, rocking up on his toes briefly so they’re almost at eye level before falling back onto his heels when he remembers they haven’t kissed since exiting the sewers, and he isn’t sure if Richie even wants that, despite the fact that Richie chases his mouth as Eddie drops back down to his heels. “So where do we go from here?”

“I think you know that’s up to you,” Richie says, watching his own fingers as he trails them down Eddie’s face, like he’s racing toy cars on the carpet of his parents’ home—just a boy who’s enamored with the whole world and everyone in it except himself.

“Richie,” Eddie says, “are you happy?”

This seems to throw Richie for a loop. He staggers a bit, stunned, but doesn’t leave Eddie’s proximity, or remove his fingers from Eddie’s skin. “I’m—uh. I don’t… I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it in a long time. Do you mean in general?”

Eddie shakes his head, “I think that’s too much to think about all at once. No, maybe just… Are you happy right now?”

“Well, yeah,” Richie answers automatically, but cuts himself off when Eddie shakes his head once again.

“No easy answers. I’m not the paparazzi, or a gay kid on the street. I don’t need a hero, or a celebrity. Just honesty.” Richie’s smile is so soft and genuine, and Eddie really, _really_ wishes he could kiss him. “So, I’ll ask again: are you happy right now?”

Eddie gives Richie times to think, and when their eyes meet once more, something seems clearer. The fog that’s been behind his eyes the entire time they’ve been in Derry has lifted a little, and his irises are a luminescent, crystal blue in the natural light. Eddie can only imagine how they must shine in the bright sun of LA.

“All I ever wanted was enough room,” Richie says. “In Derry, I felt smothered, and in the public eye, I’m either given too much room or not enough. I’m inhuman to them, and that was fine with me. I thought—I really thought that was fine with me. When I first got here, it was too much at once, all I remembered. I know everyone says got their memories back piecemeal, but the second I passed that stupid welcome sign, I was drowning with all I remembered. It was overwhelming. Flash after flash of my parents and my sister and the quarry and Stanley and Bill and Bev and running around like lunatics and _you._ I remembered the way you looked in the water, and the way my stomach would drop out when you laughed at my jokes, and how you tasted, and how much I loved you. God, Eddie, I fucking adored you.”

“Past tense?” Eddie teases.

“No way,” Richie shoots back, resolute and sure, and Eddie’s heart lurches. “Because the thing is, you never smothered me. Even with all your bandaids and paranoid pestering, I never once felt anything but peace with you. Do you remember in Neibolt the first time? When the clown was coming towards us, and your arm was snapped in half, and I grabbed your face and told you to look at me?” Eddie nods, mouth pulling nervously. “That was as much for you as it was for me. Bill did that same thing when we first went in, with the missing poster, and it calmed me down so much. But when I did it with you, and you really looked at me, I realized that even if we did die there, right at that moment, I’d be okay with that. Not in the suicidal way I was used to either, constantly searching for a way out. No, it was more… peace. I’d made peace with the world and how it treated me, because it gave me you in what I thought would be my last moments.

“But they weren’t my last, and I got to spend the next four years right alongside you. I don’t think I could constitute what I felt when we were kids _happy._ But when you and I would block out the world, and it was just the two of us alone in my room, listening to The Smiths or Morrissey or whatever sad boy rock I was into back then, it felt like maybe I could be if we weren’t in Derry. Like if it was you and me and the rest of the Losers jetting out to some far off city, I could never be _un_ happy.

“You’re not always happy when you’re in love. I think that’s an unrealistic expectation to set. But I think you can be at peace. And that’s pretty close to happy, I think. Maybe it’s even better.”

“How come?” Eddie asks, barely a breath in the wind.

“Because happy goes away. Happiness is impermanent, isn’t that what you said? _Happiness would be meaningless if it were endless._ But peace? I think once you find peace, it never leaves, even when happiness does.”

Maybe, instead of _you deserve to be happy,_ the better statement would be _you deserve to find peace._

“And you… you think you found peace?”

“Yeah, I do,” Richie smiles, hooking his arms around Eddie’s shoulders to drag him flush against his chest. “I think I found it a long time ago, but wasn’t able to carry it with me because I forgot it. But just… Just listen, babe.”

Eddie does. He listens. He hears the bullfrogs in the pond behind him, he hears the cicadas coming out of sleep, he hears the wind rustling the trees around them, and he hears their friends laughing their way through a song a few yards away. Mike’s trying to pick his way through the intro of a song, and Beverly is in stitches from it. But then he launches into the first verse along with Bev laughing through the words. _I'll show you mine if you show me yours first. Let's compare scars, I'll tell you whose is worse. Let's unwrite these pages and replace them with our own words._

“You hear it?” Richie asks, brushing their noses together without breaking eye contact. Their glasses bump together, and his vision is blurred up so close, but he’s still left breathless. “Peace.”

“Yeah,” Eddie responds faintly, slowly leaning up onto his toes as Richie’s smile grows wider as their lips touch. “Peace.”

And when Richie finally captures his mouth in a kiss, Eddie feels the exact peace that Richie has been describing. Maybe if the search for home is his albatross, the search for peace has been Richie’s.

It feels silly almost how easy it is after 40 years to say yes to everything Richie has been proposing. His forever-boyfriend, he called Eddie in his letter probably lost somewhere in one of Eddie’s moves, but while most of the exact words he wrote have been lost to murky memory, that hasn’t been.

Beverly cuts off her singing with a piercing wolf-whistle that rouses the group into raucous cheers and Pibbins into excited barking. Eddie laughs into Richie’s mouth when he dips him, half for show, half because he wants to, and it’s _nice._ It’s so nice. For the first time in his entire life, Eddie doesn’t feel so tired. The sun has fully set, the sky still a dark blue, and the moon is shining down on them, and there are so many stars here. None of them have seen the stars in so long, locked into smog and light pollution. Eddie wonders if there are stars in Atlanta, or stars in heaven. He thinks Stan and Bill deserve some starlight after all they’ve sacrificed.

Eddie pulls away as the cheers die down and they begin singing again, this time with funny voices to try to make Richie and Eddie laugh. “Hey, are there stars in LA?” he asks with a grin.

“Which ones?” Richie asks, eyebrows jumping.

“The ones in the sky, moron,” Eddie laughs, rolling his eyes.

“Well, not really,” he responds, “but I live near the Griffith Observatory and I go to almost all their free star parties they have once a month.”

“You do?” Eddie asks, tilting his head as he gazes up at Richie. He’s all Eddie can see, all he wants to. There’s a whole galaxy inside Richie that Eddie has yet to know, and it’s disarming how much he wants to.

“Yeah,” Richie nods, “I like the stars.”

“Me, too,” Eddie smiles. “Will you take me there?”

Richie’s breath catches and he nods fiercely, “Yes, fuck yes, anything you want.”

“Well, that’s a little silly,” Eddie teases, tipping his forehead and touching Richie’s gently. “Some things you want, too.”

“If that’s what you want,” Richie says, and Eddie thinks he means it to come out in a Voice, but it gets strangled by the pure emotion he’s feeling. They’ve both been waiting for this for so long, giving into momentum instead of pushing like hell against it, convincing themselves that self-care is being without. Maybe self-care is just being honest, in whatever form that takes.

“Hey,” Eddie whispers, “if I tell you that I love you right now, does it count as saying it in the light?”

Richie hums consideringly, “I don’t think so. I guess you’re just gonna have to try again in the morning.”

“I will,” Eddie breathes, his lips catching against Richie’s as he speaks.

For Eddie Kaspbrak, every minor detail is a major decision. Every move he makes, every word he says is calculated and measured. The whole production of living is exhausting. But when Richie licks the seam of his mouth open and Eddie sighs happily, it doesn’t feel so tiring. He isn’t thinking about how skilled he is at kissing, or what his friends must think, or what happens next, or anything but the way Richie feels pressed against him.

But right now there's no scene to force on the situation in his head like there used to be; neither of them are acting. Eddie doesn't have the overwhelming stage fright he usually does when even thinking about those words, or when he feels he has to say them to Myra—a performance. They have an audience, and applause, and maybe even a plot to follow, but there's no scene. It's easy.

And there’s still so much to work through, so much red tape keeping them from the life the Eddie and Richie who got it right have. There’s Myra, and doctor’s appointments, and work, and stigma. But Eddie has been fighting for so long, and he thinks that when Richie kisses down his neck and Eddie finally, unbidden from fear or shame, says, “I love you,” clear as day, that it can be easy if they want it to be.

It’s easy when Richie looks down at him with gentle eyes and says, “I know.” It’s easy when Eddie swats at him with a giggle and a swift, “Beep beep, Richie!” It’s easy when Richie kisses his cheek and up the side of his face to his forehead and murmurs, “I love you, too. Of course I do. I aways have,” into his skin.

It’s easy, Eddie thinks. They’re happy right now, and Eddie knows that they won’t always be, but that’s okay. They have peace, and they found home. And really, that’s more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay HEY. holy SHIT. i did it, it’s done, it’s over. i hope you don’t totally hate me for this, and i know i’m the kinda dude who’s always lauding how stories don’t need happy endings to still be happy, but. these two fucking deserved it.
> 
> so thank you so damn much for reading this behemouth of a piece, and look out for the companion piece i already have 10k written coming soon to an ao3 near you.
> 
> i love u all.

**Author's Note:**

> here's [other places to find me](http://rebecca.carrd.co).


End file.
